Dissimulation
by Linesk
Summary: Connor had been called a hunter, a deviant, a savior. It was only when he found himself doubled over in a waiting room, his nails digging so far into his scalp that blue rivulets streamed down his forehead, that he realized he had only ever been a hypocrite.
1. Chapter 1: Coming Home

**Dissimulation**

 **Summary** : Connor's eyes were wide, his teeth grit, his nails digging into his scalp until small threads of blue streaked down his forehead as he hunched over in the waiting room. He thought back to all of the moments he had chastised Hank for making unhealthy food choices, or for seeking relief at the bottom of a fifth, or for disregarding his own safety in lieu of the occasional game of Russian Roulette.

"Your health is important, Lieutenant. You shouldn't drink so much, Lieutenant. Why do you do this to yourself, Lieutenant?" It had been easy to make those judgements back when he lacked any personal source of grief to draw from. Now that he understood his partner's pain, Connor only wished his body was capable of absorbing ethanol – anything to numb him from his current mental anguish.

 _I am a hypocrite_.

* * *

 **Chapter One: Coming Home**

" _We shall meet in the place where there is no darkness."_

* * *

After the Revolution, as androids and humans alike were scrambling to piece together this new society that they had been plunged into, Connor approached Markus in a rare moment of quiet, when the civil rights leader wasn't flanked by multiple others clamoring for answers.

Markus was in what he had deemed to be his "office," a spacious, open room in the tallest tower of Jericho where he kept his effects and conducted meetings. There was a sizeable walnut table in the center surrounded by eight office chairs, a brass bar cart off to one side supplied with various brands of scotch and whisky (for entertaining human guests), a bookshelf stocked with leather-bound classics and eccentric knick-knacks, and a studio area to the left with several easels, canvases of every size, and other painting supplies. This was where Markus was standing currently, appraising his latest artwork with a critical eye.

Connor stepped around the easel to view the piece himself. It was an abstract – acrylic on canvas - boasting a sharp contrast between heavy black tones and bright, almost neon, primary hues. The entire ensemble seemed rather chaotic to the perceptive RK800 model, and he felt this reflected the current state of his mind rather well.

"What do you think?" Markus questioned, foregoing a formal greeting.

Connor tilted his head to one side, considering the painting in finer detail.

"It is… interesting. I may be projecting, but in viewing this piece I feel somewhat unsettled."

Markus laughed easily, and finally turned to face Connor. His bright eyes sparkled with mirth, and, not for the first time, Connor wondered how he remained so calm and reassuring during the political frenzy of figuring out the best way to integrate androids into human society.

"You are obviously troubled, then." Markus clasped Connor's shoulder and gave an earnest smile. "What's on your mind, my friend?"

Connor's right hand twitched, the old urge to dance a quarter across his knuckles returning with a vengeance.

"I… feel out of place. It sounds counter-productive to want to return to my old life after everything that has been accomplished, but I miss being a detective. Is that wrong of me?"

Markus squeezed the other android's shoulder and lowered his hand, his smile widening ever so slightly.

"I don't think there's anything wrong with you. You need to do what you _want_ to do. You shouldn't live your life based on anyone else's expectations."

Here Markus paused, and he glanced away, his gaze turning wistful.

"To be honest, if Carl were still alive, I think I would want to be right back where I was before. I _enjoyed_ my life with him. Our people, for the most part, will never know the joy of having a father. I wouldn't have traded that for anything."

Markus cleared his throat, an unnecessary gesture, before returning his gaze to Connor.

"Not to sound too cliché, but the heart wants what it wants."

Connor nodded once, a bit of tension easing from his shoulders.

"In that case," he said, "I think I need to leave Jericho. I'm eager to meet back up with Lieutenant Anderson, and possibly even work as his partner again at the DPD."

"This city will need your expertise now more than ever," Markus affirmed. "Go on, get out of here! But please, don't hesitate to reach out to me if there's anything you need. I could never repay you for what you've done to help me and our people."

A strange sensation prickled up Connor's neck, and he had to fight the urge to look away. He imagined, if he were human, that he would be blushing.

 _Sheepishness_ , he identified.

"I will definitely keep in touch. It goes both ways; please let me know if you ever need my help."

"Of course. Take care, Connor!"

And with that, Connor shook Markus' hand before turning and taking his leave. On his way out of the building, he made a call.

After the third ring, he was greeted with a familiar, gruff voice.

"Hello?"

"Lieutenant Anderson! It's Connor."

" _Connor!?_ Holy shit, I was worried about you. How's everything going at Jericho?"

 _He was concerned about me_ , Connor thought to himself, a warmth spreading from his core.

"It's going as well as can be expected," here Connor paused, suddenly nervous, though he couldn't identify _why_ , "Actually, I was wondering if you wanted to meet up."

"Well yeah, of course," was Hank's quick reply. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about a washed up old cop like me while you were out there changing the world."

Connor couldn't stop the smirk that quirked his lips. He had missed this banter.

"How could I ever forget such a _charming_ personality?"

Hank barked a laugh on the other end, and Connor felt _pride_ at having elicited such a response from the hard-boiled lieutenant.

"Hey, fuck you, you plastic asshole. Anyway, can you be at Chicken Feed in an hour?"

"Absolutely. I'll see you then, Lieutenant."

* * *

As Connor strode down a familiar street, he was stricken by how desolate Detroit seemed in the aftermath of the android awakening. He had stayed close to Markus and others of his kind directly after the Revolution, and had not had a real glimpse of the city after it had been evacuated. He learned something new about himself as he walked: he did _not_ like the solitude. The lazy snowfall only seemed to emphasize the emptiness, turning the sky grey, coating every surface in a dull white. Without the bustle of the crowds - vibrant, diverse people all pushing past one another just to make it through another day – and the incessant din of thousands of conversations blending together to form one beautiful cacophony, the silent streets only served to be unsettling. Connor felt like a ghost, drifting slowly through a quiet nightmare.

 _Chicken Feed is 1.13 miles away_ , Connor recited to himself, desperate to fill his head with idle information to distract from the crushing sense of isolation.

… _I wonder why Hank didn't evacuate with the rest of the city._

Stubborn to a fault, Connor was sure the lieutenant had his reasons.

 _Stubbornness_ \- he supposed that was one trait the two of them had in common.

The closer Connor drew to his destination, the faster his thirium pump seemed to work. He felt tense, like he could pick a direction and start running, and run forever. It didn't make sense; he _wanted_ to see Hank. He couldn't understand why he was so anxious.

He rounded the final corner and there stood the Lieutenant, hands shoved into the deep pockets of his coat, staring off into the skyline like it would reveal all of the answers in the universe. Delicate snowflakes had gathered at the crown of his silver hair, and caught the sunlight just so, making him seem like an ethereal, pensive subject in an oil painting.

 _I really have been spending too much time around Markus,_ Connor mused drily.

As he drew close, the lieutenant finally snapped out of his reverie upon hearing the crunch of Connor's boots. He turned toward the android, the newly appointed _person_ , and gave an earnest, toothy smile.

Connor felt lost. At this point he was sure his thirium regulator was going to explode from his core and he would just slump over, forever free from all of these new, taxing emotions.

Despite this, he steeled himself and managed to crookedly smile back.

Connor had imagined this scenario thousands of times and had run the probabilities of the various outcomes. He had expected a good-natured jab, or a frustrated insult born from concern, or an invitation to a bar (if any were still operational – though if there _was_ one remaining bar in Detroit, Connor was sure Hank would have somehow known). What had _not_ fit into his pre-rendered statistics was the lieutenant stepping forward and pulling him into a tight hug.

The first thing Connor registered once his processors recovered from apparent shock was Hank's _warmth_. In the cold, dead heart of this empty city stood the only living human for miles, and here he was, clinging to Connor like he had hung the moon and stars. Connor returned the hug, tentatively at first, but seemingly without his direct input he found himself burying his face in Hank's shoulder, months of pent up stress evaporating with the warm gesture. It felt like home. _Hank_ felt like home.

Connor didn't bother to calculate how long they stood like that, but finally Hank pulled away, and an aching sense of loss seemed to manifest in his chest at the sudden lack of contact.

"I really missed you, Hank," he blurted. As soon as the traitorous words left his mouth, Connor had to quell the rise of panic at having admitted something so, as Hank would say, _mushy._

To his surprise, the lieutenant only chuckled lightly and said, "Yeah, well, I missed you too Connor." A beat and then, "-And I'm not the only one. Come on, Sumo would never forgive me if I didn't bring you home to visit."

The mere mention of that gentle, slobbering giant brought a wide smile to Connor's face.

"I _was_ worried that you weren't spoiling him enough in my absence."

Hank snorted, and began walking. Connor followed dutifully at his heels.

"Are you kiddin' me? That mutt has it made in the shade. Just yesterday I let him have a pizza slice for dinner. That's like, _filet mignon_ to a dog." Hank had affected a poor French accent when referencing the prime cut of beef, and Connor couldn't stop the chuckle that clawed its way up his throat.

"Pizza is not a healthy staple for humans _or_ dogs, Lieutenant."

"Yeah, yeah, but everything in moderation."

"I suspect your idea of 'moderation' strays considerably from the actual definition."

Hank shot a glare over his shoulder, then paused for just a moment, seemingly overcome by an idea. Before Connor could ask, or even process what the other man was doing, Hank had scooped a handful of snow, patted it into a ball, and chucked it directly at Connor's face.

Connor had dodged tiny bullets traveling at 2500 feet per second. He should have easily been able to dodge a bulky snowball, and yet, it hit him square in the nose, leaving behind an annoying tingling sensation that alerted his sensors to a targeted drop in temperature.

His expression must have been ridiculous, because Hank was soon doubled over in laughter.

-That is, until he, himself, was pelted with five perfectly compacted snowballs in rapid succession.

Hank sputtered and raised his hands in surrender.

"Hey, whoa! That's fuckin' cheating!"

Connor quirked an eyebrow and retorted, "I apologize Lieutenant. I was not aware of proper snowball fighting etiquette. Shall I consult the Snowball Rules Committee?"

He ended this derisive question with a serene smile, causing the lieutenant to roll his eyes and shake his head, but Connor did not miss the grin that Hank attempted to hide behind a curtain of silver bangs.

"Smartass."

Connor did not refute this accusation.

* * *

When they arrived at Hank's doorstep, Connor could not stop himself from scanning the lieutenant as he fumbled with his keys.

 _ **Lieutenant Hank Anderson  
Detroit Police Department**_

 _ **Body Fat Percentage decreased by 3% since last meeting.**_

 _ **Weight decreased by 12.4 pounds since last meeting.**_

 _ **Cholesterol levels decreased by 2.4% since last meeting.**_

 _ **Liver function increased by 6.7% since last meeting.**_

Connor smiled. Hank was actually taking care of himself. Disabling his scanners for the time being, Connor took a self-indulgent moment to simply _look_ at Hank's face. His hair, though still long, was subtly different; he had washed and trimmed it recently. His beard, too, was shorter and neater. One thing that had not changed, the android noticed, were Hank's deep blue eyes.

 _If Hank could read my thoughts, he would say I'm a 'creep,'_ Connor mused, suddenly grateful that Hank was not, in fact, a mind-reader.

Once the security system was disarmed and the door was unlocked, the two men stepped inside.

"Goddamn it's cold out there," Hank remarked as he shrugged off his coat and hung it away.

Connor noted that Hank's house was tidier than before. The various mismatched fleece blankets that were typically crumpled, thrown haphazardly across the couch (or floor) and matted in dog hair were clean and crisp, folded neatly and draped across the backs of furniture. There were no clusters of beer bottles, no piles of months-old mail, no random, dirty socks peppering the living room floor.

The kitchen was clean, too, save for yesterday's pizza box.

Connor thwarted the urge to make some sarcastic comment ( _Wow Lieutenant, I can actually see the floor_ ) and instead said, "The house looks nice."

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the other man, his own gruff way of saying "thanks."

Connor was thrown from his silent appraisal as he heard a lumbering beast slide from the bed in Hank's room and come thundering in to meet him. Sumo obviously recognized him, as he started whining and wagging his tail in excitement. A moment later the sweet dog had jumped up and planted his front paws on Connor's shoulders before enthusiastically licking him in the face.

Hank let Connor endure Sumo's onslaught for a long moment before calling the dog down. He obeyed, but not without a short growl of annoyance.

"Don't talk back!" Hank admonished. Sumo circled a random spot in the floor before collapsing with a dramatic huff. Connor regarded the Saint Bernard fondly, then resumed his idle scan of the space while Hank busied himself with the television.

There was a waist-high table/shelf combo under a window that had previously been a catch-all for assorted junk, but was now boasting a small collection of framed photographs next to a vintage record player, with Hank's vinyl collection on the shelf underneath. Feeling drawn to it, Connor crossed the living room and studied the records with a distant smile. As he suspected, a few _Knights of the Black Death_ albums were there, along with _Poison_ , _In Flames_ , and (to Connor's mild surprise) _Daft Punk_. Once the music collection had been catalogued, Connor let his gaze drift upward to the pictures.

There was one of a young Hank, fresh out of the academy, presumably taken on his first day as an officer. Connor felt his core temperature rise as he observed the proud jut of this Hank's clean-shaven chin, the strong breadth of his shoulders, the cocky half-smile, the sandy color of his short hair…

Realizing his distraction, Connor looked to the other pictures before Hank could comment on his ogling.

The next one over was of Cole. It was a picture Connor had seen once before, on a dark night when he had found the broken lieutenant sitting at his dining room table, with a loaded pistol in one hand and the photo of his late son in the other.

Connor felt conflicted – pained at having to recall such a dismal memory, yet quietly proud that Hank had taken this small step to overcome his grief. He knew that the mental strength it would have taken for the lieutenant to put this particular photograph on display was beyond measure.

As Connor's gaze wandered to the next picture, he froze.

Shortly after meeting Hank, in a weak bid to win his friendship, Connor had snatched up the lieutenant's phone and held it up, insisting that they needed to take a "selfie" as new partners. Hank's head was turned to glare at Connor, while the android faced the camera with a cheesy smile so wide that his eyes were nearly closed.

Connor had assumed Hank would delete the photo. He had never given it another thought until now.

"Stop staring at those pictures like a weirdo and come sit down."

Connor straightened and slowly approached the couch where Hank was seated at the opposite end. He took a seat slowly, then turned to face the lieutenant.

"You… went through the trouble of _framing_ that picture I forced you to take?"

Hank shrugged with one shoulder, his gaze never leaving the television, but the steady creep of a blush up his neck and his increased heart rate tipped Connor off to the fact that he was getting flustered.

"It was the only pic of us together, alright? Don't look too far into it."

Connor stared down at his knees. He knew, in some distant corner of his programming, that his LED was pulsing a steady yellow. Tendons that did not exist constricted in Connor's chest, creating a phantom pain that was, strangely, entirely welcomed. This feeling was confusing, contradictory even. He had heard, before, that there was "a fine line between pleasure and pain," but this sensation threatened to overwhelm him completely.

" _Connor!_ " Hank growled, "What did I just tell you? Stop thinking so hard."

The android's head snapped back up, probably a bit too quickly to be natural.

"Sorry, Lieutenant."

Hank groaned.

"Stop _that_ , too. Look, we're going to relax and catch up. You can drop the formalities here. Just call me 'Hank.'"

"Sure thing, Lieutenant."

Hank spun around in his seat, clearly on the verge of lashing out, when he caught what Connor hoped was a good impression of a "shit-eating grin."

The older man sagged back into the cushions with a breathless chuckle and muttered "you're fucking with me."

"Brilliant deduction! Your skills as a detective are unparalleled."

"You know what just occurred to me?" Hank countered, "You'd make a reeeeal nice lawn ornament. I could switch you off, stick you in the front yard, and hang a bird feeder from your hand or some shit. It would really pull all the landscaping together out there, you know?"

A devilish impulse crossed Connor's mind.

Drawing from the acting skills he innately possessed as a born negotiator, Connor stiffened his shoulders for a moment before leaning forward and dropping his head into his hands. His willed his shoulders to shake silently for a tick or two, before he broke into what he hoped were convincing sobs.

"I thought you were past this," Connor mumbled in a purposefully broken voice, "I really thought that you didn't hate me anymore."

Hank very nearly jumped across the couch out of concern.

"Jesus Christ Connor! Hey, listen, I was just joking, I'm sorry… I know I'm an insensitive douchebag. I didn't mean it. Come on…"

Connor fell silent, let his hands fall, then slowly looked back up at Hank with that self-same shit-eating grin from before.

With his eyes wide in disbelief and his jaw unhinged, the lieutenant looked like he might implode. Connor took a mental snapshot to revisit at a later time.

"You unbelievable _asshole_! I invite you into my house and what do you do?" Here Hank playfully pushed Connor over until he was on his side, laughing hysterically. He didn't think he had ever laughed so hard. "You just sit there," Hank continued, "with that fucking smirk on your face, and just jerk me around. You think this is funny? I'll show you funny."

Hank grabbed a moth-eaten throw pillow (navy blue, with a Saint Bernard face embroidered on its front) and pelted it as hard as he could at Connor's form, still doubled over from laughter. Connor made no effort to deflect the blow.

This back-and-forth continued well into the night, until their combined laughter faded into something softer. The snowfall stopped entirely, and the world outside of the little home stilled, and the only sounds to fill the sleepy silence were Sumo's soft snores.


	2. Chapter 2: Putting Down Roots

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter Two: Putting Down Roots**

" _He was a lonely ghost uttering a truth that nobody would ever hear."_

* * *

When Connor's internal clock registered that it was 5:00AM, he was automatically drawn out of stasis. Diagnostics flashed across his field of vision faster than any human could track, but to Connor the rapid strings of information made perfect sense. All systems were functioning properly. He flexed his hands experimentally, rolled his shoulders, wiggled his toes. He noted that component #3599C, the primary joint in his right ankle, was moving with marginally more resistance than its counterpart on his left ankle. A quick scan confirmed that this was not a pressing issue – nothing that a bit of thirium-based lubricant couldn't solve, anyway. Otherwise, Connor seemed to be in peak physical shape.

Satisfied, Connor dismissed the numbers and reports that were generated automatically upon leaving stasis, and took to observing his immediate surroundings.

He was still on Hank's couch, and the other man was slouched over in an odd position at the opposite end. The television was on, broadcasting an infomercial advertising some useless kitchen utensil designed to hang and peel bananas. Sumo was heavy in his lap, his nose twitching occasionally as he dreamed.

Connor smiled down at the massive dog.

 _Of course,_ that's _why I couldn't get up._

Resigned to his fate, the android settled deeper into the cushions and let his gaze drift back to the sleeping lieutenant.

Hank was slumped on his side, his feet on the floor (obviously, since Sumo took up so much space), and was fixed at an awkward angle. Connor found it strange that the lieutenant could sleep at all in a position that seemed so uncomfortable, even to an android.

Connor was debating whether or not to wake his former partner and usher him to bed so that he could rest soundly for another few hours, but one small detail leapt out at him, causing him to pause:

At some point during the night, Hank had pulled his hair back into a messy bun, presumably to keep it out of his face as he slept.

Connor leaned forward incrementally, careful not to wake the bear of a dog in his lap. He zeroed in on the silver wisps that had fallen loose from Hank's hairband to rest against the cut of a high cheekbone. There were small wrinkles – "crow's feet," as Connor had heard them called – that branched out from the creases in his eyelids: trivial imperfections that beckoned Connor's touch. Even Hank's eyelashes were fascinating in their fullness, softening a face that had otherwise been hardened by years of loss. Connor's gaze followed the hollow of Hank's cheek down to his mouth, to the minute part of his lips, revealing a glimpse of his incisors. The jut of his chin led back to the nape of his neck in a perfect line, displaying an area that Connor had never before seen due to the length of the lieutenant's hair. There was something vulnerable, _intimate_ , about glimpsing that exposed column of skin, and an indefinable sensation stirred within the android.

Forcing himself to turn away, Connor silently admonished his own behavior. It was inappropriate to stare at people while they slept, much less to fantasize about caressing their face. Something akin to guilt churned within him, and he tried desperately to think of a distraction.

Pinging his internal clock, Connor found that it was only 5:11AM. He knew Hank well enough to know that if he woke the lieutenant at this hour, he ran the risk of being forcibly thrown through a wall – _metaphorically_ , of course.

With slow, inhuman precision and patience, Connor managed to gently lift Sumo's torso, squeeze out from under him, and lower the dog back onto the couch all without rousing the beast.

After casting a warm glance at the sleeping duo of Hank and Sumo, Connor strode to the nearest window, drew back a slate-colored curtain, and peered outside.

Though the snow had ceased momentarily, the sky was still overcast, with no stars in sight. The surrounding houses were dark, empty husks leading out to the distant skyline of downtown Detroit. There were still a smattering of lights from the larger skyscrapers, but even from this distance Connor could tell that the city was much dimmer than what was typical.

Once he grew bored of gazing out at the dead city, Connor checked the time again – 5:23AM.

With a small sigh (another distinctly human affectation he had picked up along the way), Connor turned and padded over to the kitchen, deciding that he _would_ wake the lieutenant early after all, but the odds of being dismantled at the hands of a grumpy, sleep-deprived Hank dropped considerably if there was breakfast involved.

Connor rifled through the cabinets and analyzed the contents of the refrigerator, his nose scrunched in concentration. He had never actually cooked before, but he was confident in his ability to follow simple instructions.

Unsurprisingly, ingredients were sparse, but the basics were there: bacon, eggs, waffle mix. Connor narrowed his eyes at the 2 weeks old "sell by" date on the egg carton as he pulled it from the fridge, but a quick scan confirmed that the eggs were still perfectly edible. In a matter of seconds, he accessed the internet internally and glanced over directions for preparing these foods, relieved at the simplicity of the recipes.

With the ingredients lined up neatly on the beige Formica countertop, (along with a long-abandoned waffle iron that Connor dug out and plugged into the wall), the android set to work.

After rolling up his shirtsleeves, Connor dumped one and one half cups of waffle mix into a mixing bowl, then cracked an egg on its edge and deftly dumped the yolk into the powder. Reaching for the vegetable oil, he removed the lid and poured approximately three tablespoons' worth into the mixture, then added a bit of water before whisking the components together with an egg beater.

As he stirred, Connor became momentarily lost in the lucid moment. There was something decidedly cathartic about taking these simple steps to cook a basic meal. His mind wasn't buzzing with percentages or projections; he was merely existing, bouncing from one menial task to another.

He couldn't remember a time when he had felt more at ease.

Connor had just finished beating the concoction into a creamy batter when the waffle iron chirped once, indicating that it had heated to the optimal temperature. Connor carefully tilted the mixing bowl until the batter poured into the built-in funnel atop the waffle iron. Once the iron was full, he stepped away and pulled a plate from a nearby cabinet while he waited for the batter to cook.

When the iron beeped again, signifying the first waffle was ready, Connor opened the appliance and peeled the fluffy waffle away before depositing it on the plate he had laid out. Repeating this process, he cooked another waffle which was soon stacked atop the first one, then moved to prepare the bacon.

Connor positioned himself in front of the stovetop and laid Hank's only skillet on the largest burner before turning the corresponding knob, settling on a heat output of 6. He tore into the vacuum-sealed package of honeyed bacon and peeled off four strips which he then placed on the hot skillet, flinching when a bit of grease shot up and caught him on the arm.

Hank had once emphatically claimed that bacon was "better than sex," and while the android had no experience with either bacon _or_ sex, he did derive a strange sort of satisfaction from listening to the strips of meat sizzle and pop as they cooked.

Once the color and texture seemed satisfactory, Connor deftly flipped the strips over with a fork and leaned back to wait for the bacon to finish.

The relative peace of his first venture into cooking was interrupted by a muted _thump_ before Sumo lumbered into the kitchen, his gaze immediately drawn to the skillet of bacon. Connor suppressed a chuckle and knelt to give to the dog a good-natured pat.

"I should have known you couldn't resist the smell of bacon," Connor muttered. Sumo whined pitifully in response. Unmoored, the android gave him one final scratch behind the ears before standing and shaking his head.

"Sorry Sumo, no 'people food' today. Eating pizza is bad enough."

Looking defeated, the Saint Bernard gave a short growl (a noise not unlike the one Hank made when inconvenienced) before turning to meander back to the living room. Curious, Connor followed after him.

The television was now broadcasting a talk show featuring four women who looked conspicuously alike as they all had blonde, shoulder-length hair and all wore cocktail dresses with varying bright patterns. They were clamoring to talk over each other about some celebrity, and, feeling annoyed at their pointless banter, Connor turned the TV off with a quick internal command.

Sumo had padded over to his dog bed in the corner and was chewing a bone in earnest. That just left the lieutenant on the couch, still sound asleep and slumped over in that odd position.

Unable to endure seeing Hank scrunched up like a pretzel any longer, Connor stepped around, knelt to grasp the other man's calves, and carefully picked them up before depositing them gently on the couch, so that he was stretched out in a more natural position. Hank mumbled something unintelligible in his sleep, but did not wake.

Connor knew what he _should_ have done, at that point. He _should_ have released Hank's legs before walking away and returning to the kitchen. Instead, enraptured, he gripped the other man's calves a little tighter, and wondered at the firm muscles beneath his fingertips, clearly apparent even through the thick layer of denim. With the way Hank carried himself, it was easy to forget that beyond the carefully constructed layers of laziness and apathy was an officer who had earned and maintained the title of Lieutenant, and rightfully so – Hank was a strong man.

Hank roused again at the sudden pressure, his head shooting to the side as he groused something about Gavin choking on a… _phallus_ , but his eyes never opened and he soon stilled back into slumber, for which Connor was extremely grateful.

Hastily releasing his hold on Hank's legs, Connor became aware of a borderline smoky scent drifting from the kitchen.

 _Shit._

He fled to the stovetop in four long strides and raised the smoking skillet, scrutinizing the bacon therein with concern. The strips had shrunk considerably, and when he lifted them off and onto a plate, they were stiff. The color, too, was a bit darker than what he had researched in online photos. Connor hoped Hank would like them, nonetheless.

Connor had initially planned on washing the skillet before making scrambled eggs, but a scan of online discussions on cooking forums revealed that some people actually preferred to fix their eggs in bacon grease, to soak up some extra flavor. Drawing from the knowledge that Hank really, _really_ loved bacon, Connor replaced the grease-slicked skillet on its burner and cracked open a few eggs.

It only took a matter of seconds for the yolks to begin to solidify, and so Connor fished out a spatula and took to stirring the eggs around. He paused to add dashes of salt and pepper, common spices that he learned would enhance almost any dish, and finally turned off the burner once the eggs had evolved into a fluffy mess.

The android frowned at the end result. Much like his attempt at cooking bacon, this iteration of scrambled eggs did not match the pictures he had referred to as examples. The bacon grease had tinted them light brown, a far cry from the shade of yellow that was supposedly the norm.

Feeling discouraged, Connor scraped the eggs into a bowl and decided to set the table. For better or worse, Hank would let him know exactly how the food tasted. At this point the android was certain that he had failed in his first effort to cook. However, he couldn't make an accurate assessment without feedback, so he went about setting the table, deciding that, if nothing else, this would at least be a learning experience.

He set a plate for Hank, with a fork and paper towel (the closest substitute for a napkin he could find) to the right and a butter knife to the left. Connor then arranged the plate of waffles, bowl of eggs, and plate of bacon on the table's center. He fetched a sticky bottle of maple syrup from the refrigerator, along with a stick of butter, and added those to the spread. Finally, he turned to the Keurig and began to make a cup of coffee.

As he waited for the coffee to brew, Connor was confronted with the problem of actually waking Hank. He suspected that slapping him in the face (as he had done once before, when the lieutenant was passed out on the floor in a drunken stupor) would not elicit a pleasant response. He could simply yell in Hank's face, but in doing so he would run the risk of being punched before the other man fully came to his senses. As Connor considered his options, his gaze drifted distractedly to the record player, and he was stricken with an idea.

 _Waking up to music might be pleasant_ , Connor reasoned, and so he glanced back over Hank's albums with a furrowed brow.

 _Heavy metal would likely startle him…_

That left only one option: _Daft Punk_.

His mind made up, Connor pulled the album from its place, removed the vinyl, and set it on the record player. He lifted the needle onto the record's edge, and smiled when strange electronic notes filled the air.

" _ **It might not be the right time…"**_

Hank groaned before dragging a hand over his eyes. After a moment, he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Good morning, Lieutenant," Connor quipped cheerily. Hank turned to him with narrowed eyes, before glancing at the digital clock beneath the TV.

"Jesus Christ Connor, it's 6 in the morning…"

A tic, and then:

"Hey, what's that smell?"

"I have made breakfast," the android replied. "Are you hungry?"

" _ **I might not be the right one…"**_

"Huh," Hank grumbled. "Yeah, sure."

The lieutenant finally pulled himself to his feet and shuffled toward the dining-area table. Taking this as a good sign, Connor spun around and headed toward the Keurig in the kitchen, before grasping the warm mug of coffee and presenting it to Hank once he was comfortably seated.

"Thanks."

Connor nodded once and took a seat across from his former partner, resisting the urge to fidget. There was that anxiousness again, creeping up his spine, unconsciously setting every one of his receptors on high alert. Connor wondered if this feeling was similar to the "fight or flight" response in humans.

" _ **But there's something about us I want to say…"**_

Hank lifted a waffle to his plate before helping himself to some bacon.

"Fuckin' A, extra crispy," he commented, looking pleased. Connor neglected to inform the lieutenant that the only reason his bacon was "extra crispy" was because the android had taken a special interest in Hank's calves, but he had the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

" _ **Cause there's something between us anyway…"**_

"What's up with the eggs?" the lieutenant questioned, nodding to the corresponding bowl.

Connor groaned internally.

 _I should have known better than to experiment._

"I read that the flavor of scrambled eggs could be enhanced when cooked in bacon grease," he offered, forcing his voice to remain confident.

Hank pursed his lips and nodded slowly in a gesture of acceptance before shuffling some eggs onto his plate as well.

" _ **I might not be the right one…"**_

Connor watched, enthralled, as Hank smeared some butter onto his waffle before dousing it in syrup. He cut off a piece and took a bite.

"Th'waffle's good," he mumbled through a mouth full of food. Connor relaxed into his chair.

"I'm glad to hear it. This is the first time I've ever cooked."

Hank looked up, eyebrows raised in an expression that made him seem impressed.

Belying his countenance, the lieutenant's gaze quickly dropped back to his plate and he muttered, "Yeah, well, it's hard to fuck up waffles."

Connor was perceptive enough to recognize the comment as praise, and his lips quirked in a small smile.

" _ **It might not be the right time…"**_

"So what's your place in Jericho like?" Hank asked before biting off a piece of bacon with an audible _crunch_.

Connor threaded his fingers together on the table and shifted uneasily in his seat.

"Well, I don't exactly have one. I don't intend to return to Jericho, for a while at least."

"Oh yeah?" Hank replied, his head tilted in obvious confusion. "What, did you and that one guy, uh, the leader…" here he paused to cast about for an answer.

"Markus," Connor supplied.

"Right, Markus… did you guys have a falling out or something?"

"No," Connor began, "I just decided to leave. It might seem strange but, I felt out of place there."

The lieutenant grunted in response and bit off another piece of bacon.

"Makes sense, I guess. So where are you staying now?"

" _ **But there's something about us I've got to do…"**_

Connor stiffened. It was a simple question, and a glaring oversight on his part. Where _was_ he going to stay? He chanced a glance around and something ached within him at the prospect of leaving this place – the only place he had ever truly felt at peace.

Breaking eye contact and forcing a casual shrug, he said: "I've been looking into android-friendly apartment complexes. I suspect that once the locals return to their homes and businesses there will be several options available."

Hank narrowed his eyes at the android, bearing into him with the same glare he utilized to intimidate suspects. Connor shrank beneath the intense scrutiny.

"That's just a fancy way of saying you have nowhere to go."

" _ **Some kind of secret I will share with you…"**_

"While I neglected to plan for my living situation before leaving Jericho, I am confident in my ability to…"

"Connor," Hank interrupted. "Just ask."

The android blinked in confusion.

"I'm sorry Lieutenant, I'm not sure what you mean."

Hank sighed and dropped his utensils on the table before straightening to continue the conversation at eye-level. Connor struggled to resist the urge to look away.

" _ **I need you more than anything in my life…"**_

"Listen, you've gotta learn to ask for things if you want to make it anywhere in life. Nine times out of ten, you can get what you need just by asking." Hank paused and leaned forward. Feeling cornered, Connor pressed himself into the back of his chair.

"You need a place to stay?" Hank continued, "Just ask."

" _ **I want you more than anything in my life…"**_

"I would never impose, Lieutenant…"

"Just. _Ask_."

Connor unlaced his fingers and began strumming them against the tabletop. He glanced from one wall to the other. His knee began to bob of its own accord. He imagined that, were he human, sweat would be beading on his brow at this point. Finally, after issuing a resigned sigh, he mustered up an ounce of courage.

"Hank… could I stay here until I figure out what my next step will be?"

Like a flipped switch, all tension eased from the lieutenant, and he refocused his attention to his breakfast.

"Yeah, of course. We can clear out my office tomorrow and set up a room for you."

" _ **I'll miss you more than anyone in my life…"**_

It was several moments before Connor registered that his jaw was unhinged. He shut it abruptly, hoping the other man didn't notice the loud _clack_ of his artificial teeth.

 _Well,_ that _was easy._

Unsure of what else to say, Connor finally settled on, "Thank you, Hank."

The lieutenant waved a hand dismissively.

"Don't mention it."

Hank was halfway through his last piece of bacon when Connor, feeling emboldened, decided to ask one more favor.

"Do you think you could get me back on at the DPD?"

The lieutenant hummed in thought, chewing slowly.

He swallowed and said, "Well, I'm sure there will be some political hoops you'll have to jump through, but after everything you pulled off, I'd say Fowler owes you at this point."

A pause, and then, "Are you sure that's what you really want?"

Connor's head snapped up and he met Hank's gaze straight-on. He had never been more sure of anything in his (admittedly short) life.

"Absolutely."

Connor didn't miss the grin that flickered across Hank's lips.

"Well alright! As soon as they call me back in I'll see what I can do."

The android watched with baited breath as Hank finally speared a piece of scrambled eggs and brought it to his mouth. He seemed to consider the flavor for a moment, before his eyes grew wide and he turned to stare at Connor as though he were some sort of messiah.

"Holy shit… these are the best eggs I've ever tasted."

That same painful warmth from before erupted from Connor's core and seized him in a way that he could hardly comprehend.

As if to decompress from the pointedly serious conversation, the two men fell easily into mindless chatter, and Connor hardly noticed as the music from the record player faded away.

" _ **I love you more than anyone in my life."**_


	3. Chapter 3: New Normal

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter Three: New Normal**

" _If you want to keep a secret, you must also hide it from yourself."_

* * *

The dishes from breakfast were piled in the sink and the two men set to work clearing out Hank's office. It was relatively bare, with a simple glass desk on a black metal frame on which rested Hank's severely outdated computer. A standard, black leather office chair on wheels sat in front of the workspace. There was an old oak chest of drawers that had also been painted black to the right of the desk, with a metal floor lamp to the left. While there were a few indicators of Hank's interests scattered about the space (a vintage "Matrix: Reloaded" poster, years-old tickets to a jazz concert, an obsolete handheld Nintendo console), it became clear to Connor that Hank didn't use this room often, which set him at ease just a bit, knowing that altering the makeshift office would not cause a relevant disruption in the lieutenant's daily routine.

"It's not much, but it'll work for now," Hank muttered as he brushed past Connor and took to glancing around.

"It's more than enough to suit my needs," Connor replied, still giddy from not only cooking an edible breakfast but also securing a place to live – with Hank, no less.

The lieutenant raised his eyebrows at the android as if to say 'oh, really?' and did his best imitation of a chuckle - a one-syllable hum issued from deep in his throat. Without explanation, he then left the room before quickly returning with a large garbage bag.

"Well it's a good thing you think so, because I'm pretty sure every furniture place in the city is closed." Here, Hank handed the bag to Connor. "Let's get this shit emptied out so you can do your own thing. Everything in that dresser is garbage. I'll take care of clearing off the desk, and when we're done we can get on Amazon and find you a bed."

Connor smiled brightly.

"Sounds like a plan."

Hank nodded and turned his attention to the desk. Connor spun around and opened the top drawer of the dresser. A cursory glance confirmed that it was mostly old mail, so he picked the various flyers and bills up in fistfuls and made quick work of disposing of them in the garbage bag.

The next drawer down was mostly full of old knickknacks – beer bottle caps, mismatched socks, old souvenirs. Connor wrinkled his nose at a "snow" globe that read "Clearwater Beach" and had a dolphin in the sphere's center. It was leaking water and glitter onto his hands, so he quickly chucked it in with the rest of the garbage.

The final drawer was, thankfully, mostly empty, but there was one item that drew Connor's attention right away. It was a simple napkin, with a magenta lipstick stain in the corner left by a kiss. Beneath the lip-shaped stain was a phone number. A quick scan revealed that the stain was between 4 and 6 months old.

The longer Connor analyzed the napkin, the tighter his chest seemed to constrict. It wasn't the pleasant warmth from before, however, but had been replaced with a much more unsavory sensation. This feeling had bite to it.

No doubt noticing Connor's sudden stillness, the android was startled from his thoughts when Hank was suddenly peering over his shoulder.

"Something wrong?"

Connor took a moment to quell the sudden rise of panic, inwardly wondering how an item as innocuous as a _napkin_ could send him on such an emotional roller coaster. Being deviant was _hard_.

"Sorry Hank, I just wasn't sure whether or not to throw this away."

Here Connor reluctantly offered the napkin, which Hank took from him with a chuckle. He regarded the flimsy relic for a few moments with a wry smile set upon his lips before rolling his eyes and tossing it in with the rest of the trash.

"What did I say? Everything in that dresser is garbage."

Connor wanted to press on. Why didn't Hank want to call this mysterious woman? What was her relation to Hank? Just who _was_ she?

 _It wouldn't be appropriate to ask so many questions about Hank's personal life,_ Connor reasoned internally. Still, he sat in the same spot, staring dumbly down at his hands, wrestling with this new, prickly feeling that at once irritated him and made him somewhat sad.

Logically, he knew giving your number was a relatively common flirtatious gesture, and especially common at bars. Logically, Connor knew that this person was most likely essentially a stranger. However, the ugly emotion churning in his synthetic gut was effectively driving away any semblance of logic.

The android had been so lost in thought that he, once again, was startled back to reality by Hank's gruff voice.

"What's wrong Connor? _Jealous_?"

Connor deftly picked up on the playful inflection in Hank's tone. He was teasing. The statement was a joke.

 _The statement was far too accurate._

"Obviously," Connor replied smoothly, "who _wouldn't_ be jealous of a drunk floozy who has nothing better to do in her spare time than flirt with a man who thinks the Matrix movies were actually good?"

A computer mouse immediately collided with Connor's face. It must have been the closest thing within Hank's reach.

For one terrifying moment, Connor was sure he had a crossed a line, but then Hank erupted into booming laughter. His hair fell into his eyes as he leaned over and clutched his stomach, his mouth stretched in mirth with each howl.

Once he had caught his breath, Hank looked up at the android, eyes sparkling.

Connor was transfixed.

"Alright, ok, _first_ of all, where in the hell did you learn the word 'floozy'?"

"I was programmed to know every word in the English dictionary in addition to various common slang terms…"

" _Second of all_ ," Hank interrupted, "fuck you, the Matrix movies were phenomenal. You just have shit taste."

Connor shrugged with one shoulder.

"Third of all," Hank was gesturing wildly at this point, both hands raised in emphasis, "when did you become such a sarcastic asshole?"

A devious grin played upon Connor's lips as he smugly crossed his arms.

"I learned from the best."

The ugly feeling in Connor's gut evaporated as the two men returned to work, laughing all the while, and the napkin was soon forgotten.

* * *

An hour later, once the desk had been cleared and the dresser had been emptied and the room was a bit tidier, Hank was sat at the computer scrolling through various beds for sale with Connor leaned over his shoulder.

Connor pointed to a bed that appeared to have a plastic headboard sporting a cartoon German Shepherd that wore a generic detective's outfit (brown trench coat, brown hat) and held a magnifying glass in one paw.

"I want this one."

"No."

"You said I could have whichever bed I wanted!"

"I'm not ordering a fucking 'Detective Dog' bed."

"Why not? I enjoy detective work and I also like dogs. This is clearly the optimal choice."

"Connor, that's a bed for _children_."

Here Hank finally turned from the computer screen to shoot a glare at the other man, only to be met with a placid, self-satisfied smirk.

"Jesus, will you quit fucking with me for one second?"

Connor ignored the rhetorical question and returned his attention to the screen. He gestured to a different listing – an elaborate four-poster bed hand-carved from bird's eye maple.

"How about this one?"

The android stifled a chuckle as he watched Hank's eyes nearly bug out of his head.

" _That's ten thousand dollars_!"

Connor couldn't stop the laughter this time, and he giggled even harder when Hank sagged in his chair with a dramatic groan, looking scorned.

This back-and-forth continued for several more minutes before the lieutenant pulled up another listing, this time of a contemporary iron bed frame that sported interesting geometric shapes.

"What do you think of this?" Hank questioned.

Connor leaned in further to scrutinize the bed. He appreciated the simple, clean lines and the overall design managed to seem unique without being too gaudy. He was still learning his own preferences, but underdeveloped as his style was, this suited his tastes without question.

"It's… perfect."

Hank nodded and placed the order, feigning indifference, but Connor didn't miss the small, satisfied curve of his lips.

* * *

Living with Hank felt natural, and it wasn't long before the two of them fell into a routine. Connor was always up first in the mornings, but after a few heated lectures from Hank, had agreed to let the lieutenant sleep until 8:30AM each day (unless the android was especially bored, in which case he would wake Hank anyway and suffer through the ensuing string of curses). Connor would then cook breakfast, although omelets were strictly forbidden after he somehow managed to catch his first (and only) attempt at one on fire. They divvied up the other chores – Hank did most of the laundry and cleaned the bathroom whereas Connor tidied the kitchen and living room – and they would usually walk Sumo together at least 3 times a day.

It was during one such walk, nearly a month after Connor had moved in, when they finally crossed paths with another person.

Some of the snow had melted, revealing patches of concrete and dead grass. Connor was being pulled down a slushy sidewalk by Sumo as he lunged ahead, overeager to investigate some nebulous scent, which left Hank trailing behind them. Connor was looking exasperatedly down at the hulking dog, trying to mitigate his strength so as to establish dominance without choking the creature, when Sumo suddenly locked up, his thick legs stock-still, as his ears perked in alert.

Connor stopped abruptly as well, and Hank very nearly walked into him.

"What's the hold up?"

Following Sumo's gaze, Connor gestured to the figure turning a corner and walking steadily toward them.

"There's someone up ahead," Connor indicated.

The strange man was tall, lanky, and unhurried. He strode toward the duo with a pleasant smile on his countenance. He was dressed in a smart, gray pea coat with an eccentrically patterned scarf peeking out from his collar, and his hair was similarly eccentric – a mess of tight, black curls.

"Gentlemen," he acknowledged with an easy nod.

"Hi, my name's Connor," the android replied, before smiling in turn and offering a hand. Connor already knew from a standard facial scan that the man was named Devon Williams and was 36 years old with only a few petty traffic violations on his record. Despite this, he also knew better than to forego the standard human introductions, and so he maintained his smile while waiting for the other man to introduce himself properly.

"I'm Devon," he replied before giving Connor's hand a single, firm shake. Peering over the android's shoulder at Hank, he added: "And you are…?"

"Lieutenant Hank Anderson," Hank replied in a stiff tone. Connor suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the obvious, and entirely unnecessary, pull of rank.

Devon didn't bat an eyelash however, and amiably replied "Well, it's a pleasure to meet the both of you."

"You're the first person we've seen in quite a while," said Connor.

"Yeah, my girlfriend and I came back a few days ago. No matter what happens, Detroit is our home, you know?"

Here, Hank finally stepped forward.

"Have you seen anyone else around?"

Devon nodded.

"I've seen several, actually. I think everyone's finally starting to, you know, trickle back in. Life goes on; nobody can play hooky forever."

Here Devon paused, and took a long look at Connor's LED. He seemed to be hesitating, as if he wasn't sure whether or not to say what was on his mind, but eventually he must have decided to press on.

"Listen," Devon began, addressing Connor directly, "I'm sorry about what you and your people had to go through, and I hope this isn't over the line, but I just wanted to say I'm happy that you guys stood up for yourselves. I think the world can be better with all of us working together."

Connor couldn't stop the bright smile that bloomed across his face. Realistically, he knew that there would be a great deal of opposition when it came to integrating androids as equals into human society, but he was beyond pleased to find that there were others who supported the cause.

He was so consumed by happiness that he almost didn't notice the drastic change in Hank's demeanor. His previously furrowed brows relaxed, his posture melted from stiff to loose, and his stern frown lifted into a pleasant grin.

 _Was Hank acting intimidating for my sake?_

"That means more to me than I could possibly tell you," Connor replied sincerely, after tearing his attention away from Hank. "Thank you."

Devon laughed nervously and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck.

"Please don't thank me for just being a decent human being!"

Hank huffed.

"Hey, that's a rare thing these days," the lieutenant groused.

"Unfortunately, I think you're right," Devon agreed. "People will come around, though." A pause, and then, "Well, I guess I'll let you guys go. I better get back to my girlfriend. But hey," Here Devon pulled a card from his wallet, "use this to pick up a six-pack on me. I brew IPAs downtown. We're called Motor City Brewing."

Hank immediately perked up at the offer of free beer and grabbed the coupon before Connor had the chance.

"Hell yeah! I love a good IPA. Thanks, man."

Devon chuckled and said, "Don't mention it. See you around!"

Devon gave Sumo a quick pat before waving and taking his leave.

"Nice guy," Hank muttered. Connor agreed wholeheartedly.

* * *

That night, Hank and Connor were on the couch re-watching Breaking Bad (one of Hank's favorite shows) with Sumo stretched out between them. Connor was snug in pair of fleece pajama pants that Hank had given him (navy blue and patterned with snowflakes). He also wore a t-shirt he had ordered himself – white with a simple phrase in black lettering: "I'd rather be with my dog." Hank wore his preferred pair of black sweatpants and a hunter green, baggy hoodie with a faded _Five Finger Death Punch_ logo adorned on the front. Connor supposed they made an odd picture – two adult men in ridiculous, mismatched clothing scrunched onto a threadbare couch on which a giant dog took up most of the space, but he absolutely would not have had it any other way.

There was a period not too long ago when Connor would have scoffed at the prospect of wasting precious time staring at a television screen, back when his entire purpose and every action revolved around completing his mission. Now, however, he derived a deep sense of peace from these quiet moments, allowing himself to become engrossed in the drama unfolding on-screen. It was a nice break from the usual clamor of his mind – a welcomed respite from the statistics and percentages that typically cluttered his vision.

The silence was short-lived, however, when Hank's cell phone suddenly blared to life. Hank glanced at the screen and his eyebrows shot up in intrigue.

"It's Fowler," he supplied.

Connor tore his attention from the television just as the protagonist was walking across a desert in nothing but a pair of white briefs and focused on the phone conversation instead. Hank accepted the call and drew the phone to his ear.

"Anderson," Hank muttered in his standard greeting. "Pretty good, been a little bored but otherwise ok...How're you and the missus? Uh-huh…Good, good…Yeah, that works…Hey, you'll never guess who's sitting beside me right now." Here Hank took a sidelong glance at Connor. A thrill shot up the android's spine. "Connor. Yeah, I know…He's doing fine…Yeah…Alright, well I'll see you Monday."

Hank ended the call and turned to Connor, grinning all the while.

"Well, I was just called back in. I'll be heading to the precinct on Monday."

Connor reluctantly returned the grin, and said, "Glad to hear it."

He tried to mask the disappointment that bloomed from his core at the prospect of being left behind while Hank went on investigations alone, but the intuitive man must have picked up on his strained smile and the tight set of his shoulders.

"Don't worry, I haven't forgotten. I'll talk to Fowler about getting you back on. Just… don't get your hopes up. I have no fucking clue how this is going to work, but we'll figure something out."

Connor relaxed a bit, and he began absently running his fingers over Sumo's ears in an effort to calm his nerves.

"Thanks, Lieutenant."

* * *

As Connor watched Hank drive away the following Monday morning, he noted with pride that the lieutenant would be no more than 20 minutes late to his first day back on the force.

 _Small victories,_ he mused.

Suddenly faced with the prospect of spending a decent chunk of the day alone, Connor groaned and retreated to his room. It hadn't changed much from when it had served as Hank's office – the desk, dresser, and even the framed Matrix: Reloaded poster were all still there, but Connor was slowly adding little touches to make the space his own. His new bed was fixed in one corner and fitted with crisp white sheets and a simple, navy comforter, but there were other changes, as well. A white coin bank in the shape of a hound dog sat on the desk beside the computer monitor, along with a small succulent in a blue ceramic pot. Above his bed, Connor had hung a framed painting of a whale he had found online, and even his wardrobe was growing incrementally as he experimented with different styles. Somewhat to his own chagrin, however, he found that he preferred light blazers over a button-down shirt, and often dressed in ensembles that were not uncommon from the uniform he had been issued from CyberLife. Connor had once voiced the concern that he wasn't straying far enough from his original programming, to which Hank advised: _"Stop overthinking it and just wear whatever the fuck you want."_

Smiling fondly at the memory, Connor sat at the desk and turned on the dated computer. He could have easily just browsed the internet from his own HUD, but there was something pleasantly engaging in using a PC instead, and so he decided to indulge his newly-developed habit of watching strange videos on Youtube. Hank had once referred to this practice as "going down the Youtube rabbit hole."

Hours later, Connor was on his third consecutive video of a dermatologist clearing out clogged pores when Hank returned home. Connor very nearly jumped up from his desk and had to force himself to take a casual pace back to the living room instead of sprinting.

 _Don't act like a damn poodle,_ he reminded himself.

"Hi Hank," he greeted in a voice that he hoped didn't sound too eager.

"Hey," the other man responded with a smile as he hung up his coat. He was obviously in a lighthearted mood, and Connor took this as a good sign.

"Why don't you sit down and I'll tell you how everything went today."

Connor agreed and took his place on the couch, his knee bobbing impatiently as Hank grabbed a Corona from the fridge before joining him.

Hank took a few long gulps of beer, and Connor _might_ have been distracted by the rhythmic bob of his Adam's apple were he not so anxious. Finally the lieutenant lowered the bottle and turned to Connor, who automatically straightened in his seat.

"So," Hank began, "there's a custodial position open."

Connor didn't justify this statement with an answer and instead opted to glare at Hank in earnest.

The other man only laughed.

"Okay, okay, I talked to Fowler. He wants you back, says you'd be a great asset. It turns out that to be a detective, the only real requirement is a GED. Most places won't accept anyone who hasn't been through the Academy, but you'd be an exception, of course." Hank reached for his beer once more and took another swig before continuing. "I know you could knock out the GED no problem, and really it shouldn't even apply to people like you… no offense."

"None taken," Connor replied quickly.

"So anyway, Fowler is willing to bring you on as a 'consultant,'" Here Hank quirked his fingers in air quotations, "and you'd be making 17 bucks an hour until you pass the GED. After that you'd be making as much as the other entry-level detectives."

Connor was speechless. His wide-eyed gaze must have unsettled the lieutenant, because he finally broke the silence by saying, "You can come in tomorrow, if you want to. If not, I understand."

Connor all but catapulted across the couch and drew Hank into a tight hug.

"I'm very excited to get back to work. Thank you, Hank."

The baffled lieutenant hesitantly clasped the android's shoulder with one hand while balancing his beer with the other.

"Yeah, yeah… no big deal."

After a few tense moments, Hank cleared his throat and gently nudged Connor's shoulder. Taking the hint, the android drew away and settled back on his end of the couch.

"You know," Hank began, "this is your first job as a free man. We should celebrate."

Connor's entire form buzzed with excitement. The overwhelming sensation was almost too much to process.

"I agree," he managed at length, "What did you have in mind?"

"Wellll," Hank drawled, "There's gonna be a fireworks show downtown tonight for android independence. Wanna check it out?"

The android's mouth parted without his direct input and he had to scramble to rearrange his thoughts into something coherent. He, of course, knew what fireworks were, but he had never beheld them with his own eyes.

"I think that sounds like fun," Connor answered casually, belying his own elation.

Hank took a brief glance at Connor's snowflake pajamas and added, "Alright, great, but you might want to change…"

"Oh, of course. I won't be long!"

Connor leapt up and shuffled to his room before clicking the door shut behind him. He thought he heard Hank laughing from the living room.

Faced with the problem of dressing for a night on the town, Connor stared at his closet with a deep frown set upon his face. He didn't want to look _too_ casual, but by the same token, he also didn't want to seem stiff. This was a special occasion, sure, but they would be standing around in downtown Detroit, not spinning about in an elaborate dancing hall.

The android finally settled on a crisp red button-down shirt sans jacket, and dark grey slacks. He paired this with a simple black belt and black dress shoes, and while he still had the niggling impression that he was overdressed, he couldn't help but smile at his reflection in the mirror.

 _Just wear whatever the fuck you want._

Satisfied, Connor returned to the living room to find that Hank had changed as well. He wore a dark grey dress shirt with a silver paisley overlay, along with dark jeans and black leather boots. His hair, too, had been haphazardly pulled back into a messy bun, with loose silver wisps hanging about his face, and it wasn't until the lieutenant shifted uncomfortably that Connor realized he had been staring.

"Ready…?" Hank ventured.

"Uh… yeah. Yes. I'm ready."

Hank nodded slowly, fixing Connor with an odd look, before heading toward the door.

* * *

The sun was setting as they drove toward the city, painting the sky in vivid hues of yellow and pink. Connor stared fixedly out his window, enthralled by the little markers of life that were gradually returning to Detroit – dogs being walked on the sidewalks, people mowing their front lawns, children riding bicycles down the street. It was refreshing to see the city flourish once more, when only a handful of weeks prior it had essentially been a ghost town.

Suburban neighborhoods gradually faded into concrete business, and when Hank finally pulled into the tall parking garage of a bank, Connor was confused.

"Just trust me," the lieutenant had said.

It was an easy command for Connor to follow, and so he didn't complain as they trudged up the dinky stairwell, floor by floor, until they reached the roof.

Breathless, Hank leaned his weight against the rail and peered down at the view below, at the lights that twinkled as dark descended upon the city. Connor joined him and smiled at the cityscape. Large digital billboards blared with garish colors and contrasted with the classic street lamps that still lined the main roads. Skyscrapers surrounded them, each floor completely lit, creating little squares of bright yellow that reached out and into the clouds above. A plane buzzed overhead, its red safety lights blinking in the darkness. Connor's artificial heart was full. He felt weightless as he stood next to Hank, and they surveyed the city before them in a comfortable silence.

After several minutes, Hank nudged Connor's shoulder and pulled a square black box from his coat pocket.

"Here, this is for you."

Connor accepted the gift and gingerly popped open the lid of the box to reveal a sharp watch with a shiny blue face, the band of which was made from white gold. The android recognized the brand as Michael Kors, a stylish and expensive designer. He clasped the watch onto his left wrist with a trembling hand, and slowly returned his gaze to Hank.

"I know you can check the time whenever you want," the lieutenant sputtered, refusing to meet Connor's eyes, "but every professional needs a good watch."

Connor looked back down at the timepiece and shifted his wrist from left to right, smiling as it glittered in the starlight.

"It's beautiful," he said sincerely. "I don't know what to say…"

The moment was interrupted by a loud boom as a flare shot high into the sky and erupted into bright sparks of red and blue. Connor gasped, both amazed by the show of lights and simultaneously impressed with their close proximity. The parking garage had been a good idea, after all. He heard the cheers of hundreds of others down below, before three more fireworks were set off in quick succession, screeching through the darkness and exploding into golden sparkles that trickled lazily down for several feet before fading altogether.

As fireworks erupted all around him, Connor watched their reflection in the face of his new watch, and slowly turned to look at Hank. The other man's smile was so wide that deep wrinkles were set at either end of his lips. His eyes were bright as he watched the show, his strong, calloused hands gripping the railing hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Connor stared openly at the lieutenant, at the man who now stubbornly refused to return his gaze, and a realization slowly crept over him in cold waves:

 _I am in love with Hank._

As sparks trickled around him and people cheered in the streets below, Connor was stricken with fear at having finally arrived at this conclusion. One word raced through his mind on infinite repeat.

 _Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…_


	4. Chapter 4: Back to Work

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Back to Work**

" _Perhaps one did not want to be loved so much as to be understood."_

* * *

After the fireworks show, Hank and Connor had lingered, both leaned over the railing as they watched the crowds slowly trickle away until the streets were finally clear enough to attempt returning home. Connor had remained mostly silent after the nature of his feelings for Hank had bubbled to the surface, only indulging the lieutenant with short answers and polite smiles, and he was grateful that Hank didn't pry. His mind was frantic in a way it hadn't been since the night he infiltrated Cyberlife Tower.

On the ride back, Connor quietly watched the lights of Detroit blur by, occasionally becoming distracted when his wrist would angle just so, and his new watch would catch the reflection of a neon sign or a streetlight. For as much as Hank had made him happy, happier than he could have ever fathomed, the fear of relinquishing this happiness with a one-sided confession left him paralyzed, like a hare staring into the eyes of a ravenous wolf, instinctively knowing that it would be pointless to flee. Fear made a home in his newly awakened heart, curling around the warmth he hid there and darkening his thoughts of a future that seemed just beyond his reach.

Connor knew he was being rude in his stillness. Hank had given him a home, an occupation, and had even gone out of his way to celebrate his newly realized personhood. They were gifts that the lieutenant seemed to hand over easily, despite his guarded personality. He had been vulnerable, had lowered his walls just for Connor's sake, and instead of showering the man with praise and appreciation, he was sitting mute in the passenger seat with his fingers curled at his knees like a coward.

When they finally pulled into Hank's driveway and the car was parked and shut off, neither of them moved. Hank stared straight ahead, his hands still gripping the wheel, and Connor remained seated in the same stiff posture he resorted to when the onslaught of emotion became too much.

There was a thickness between them, not quite awkward but not quite comfortable, either. From his peripheral vision Connor could see the thinly veiled melancholy etched across Hank's face. There was a question on his tongue, as if he was standing at the precipice of an insurmountable void and couldn't cross without first mapping out the android's feelings.

 _He probably thinks he somehow offended me_ , Connor thought miserably.

Still, he didn't speak, didn't move, and didn't even utter a simple 'thank you.' He waited for Hank to say something, _anything_ , silently pleaded for the gruff man to insult him or chastise him, or to make any kind of verbal acknowledgement of this _thing_ between them.

What Hank did instead was exhale shakily before angling his head toward Connor and flashing a tired grin.

"Well, thanks for humoring me. We should turn in. Big day tomorrow."

" _Thanks for humoring me,"_ Connor parroted in his mind, disgust at himself curling in his gut.

 _He has no idea that this was one of the best nights of my life._

Connor knew it would have been so easy to tell him, and the words were there, just at the back of his throat, but before he could speak Hank had leaned forward to briefly clasp his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity before finally exiting the car. Once the lieutenant was safely turned toward his front door, Connor allowed his expression to fall from robotic neutrality to one of pure frustration, with his brows drawn together and his teeth grit. He sat like that for a moment or two, shaking, before once more pushing these emotions down and heading inside himself.

By the time Connor entered the house, Hank had already shut himself inside his bedroom. Sumo was at his feet, looking up at him with those big, pleading eyes, and the android could have sworn that the beast was peering into his soul, or whatever passed as his soul.

"It's okay boy," Connor whispered, kneeling to scratch the dog under his chin.

He didn't measure how long he stayed like that, long enough that a human's joints would have been sore, surely, but when Sumo grew bored of his affections and turned away to lumber toward his blanket in the corner, Connor finally retreated to his own room, pausing to send a brief message to Markus. He then allowed himself to slip into the blissful nothingness of stasis, comfortable in the bed that Hank had picked out for him.

* * *

The following morning was easier, simply because Connor was too anxious about his first day back at the precinct to be preoccupied over his newly realized feelings for Hank. He smoothed over the front of his dress shirt for the forty-eighth time, flattening non-existent wrinkles as he scrutinized his reflection. The shirt was simple yet professional – white with vertical, light blue pinstripes, and tucked into a pair of dark jeans. He wore classic black oxfords that matched the black leather belt at his waist, and felt confident that his outfit toed the line of sophistication without seeming too overdone. Connor completed the ensemble by slipping on his watch and rolling his sleeves to his forearms so that the timepiece would be clearly visible.

Satisfied, he nodded once at himself and headed into the living room.

Connor had hoped that with it being 8:04AM on a work day, the lieutenant would already be shuffling about, but the living room was still dark and untouched, and Hank's shut door loomed at Connor from the shadows, mocking him and his seemingly futile desire for punctuality. Reluctant to upset the other man, especially after acting like a stubborn child the night before, Connor paced the floor until 8:10 before his nerves finally spurred him into action.

Steeling himself, he rapped against Hank's door.

"Lieutenant? You need to get up."

Silence.

Connor groaned, perhaps a bit dramatically, before knocking louder this time.

"Lieutenant!"

Still nothing, not even a grunt of awareness from the other side.

Eschewing any notion of privacy, Connor moved to open the door, then stilled when the handle wouldn't turn.

It was locked.

Frustration gave way to concern. This time Connor formed a solid fist and beat against the door with three brash _thuds_.

Anyone should have been roused by the noise, but when the android didn't even detect the faintest rustle of a sheet on the other side, he made a decision.

Connor stepped back, preconstructed the action in his mind, and kicked the door open with relative ease, not even flinching as it bounced noisily against the opposite wall.

Hank was spread out, somehow managing to take up nearly all of his king-sized bed. A sheet was tangled beneath him, and a quick, nearly frantic scan confirmed that he was, in fact, alive, though severely dehydrated. Connor stepped forward and spotted the empty bottle of Black Lamb at Hank's side. He wanted to be angry, wanted to smack the other man until he was lucid again, but the ire he felt was eclipsed by the aching thrum of sadness that bloomed in his chest.

With a resigned sigh, Connor retrieved a glass of water from the kitchen and stepped around to where Hank was still asleep, completely oblivious to the world around him. When he dumped the water on Hank's face, the reaction was delayed, but eventually his survival instincts must have kicked in because he began to sputter and groan.

"Get up, Lieutenant," Connor demanded in a clipped tone.

Hank finally, _finally_ opened his eyes and squinted up at Connor in confusion.

"…the fffuck?"

"It is time to go to work."

Hank dragged a hand across his eyes, frowning at the cold wetness that ran from his brows down to the collar of his ribbed tank.

"The fuck was that for?"

"I attempted to knock at your door – _several times_ \- but received no response," Connor explained, a dangerous undercurrent to his voice. It was the same way he used to address deviants, coating every word with an edge designed to invoke fear.

If Hank was at all aware of the thinly contained rage emanating off of Connor in nearly tangible waves, he didn't show it. He slowly hoisted himself up on one hand, frowned at the bedroom door that now hung crookedly on its hinges, and rubbed at his brows, no doubt battling a severe headache.

"Jesus, how many times are you gonna wake me up by dumping water on my face?"

Connor's hands balled into fists without his direct input, but he tempered his indignation and looked pointedly at the empty whisky bottle before speaking once more.

"I suppose it depends on how many more times you decide to drink yourself into an ethylic coma."

The android had expected Hank to lash out then, but was once again proven wrong when the exhausted man only nodded once and shrugged a shoulder in concession, before turning and planting his feet on the floor. He stood, a bit unsteadily, and Connor could not resist the urge to offer an arm for balance. Hank accepted the help without complaint, and once it seemed that he could remain upright on his own, Connor slowly pulled away, his forearm burning from where Hank had briefly grasped him.

"Get me some Advil, will ya?"

Connor frowned but did as he was asked, and by the time he returned with the pills and a fresh glass of water, Hank had managed to step into some jeans and was pulling an eccentrically-patterned shirt from his closet. The android might have admonished him for not taking a shower when he so clearly reeked of alcohol, but when a glance at his watch revealed it was already 8:37AM, he knew that there really wasn't any time. Hank hastily slipped on the shirt and downed the proffered pills before stumbling into the bathroom. He spent an unsatisfactorily short amount of time brushing his teeth before finally stepping into the living room, pulling on his boots and declaring that he was ready to leave.

"I'll drive," Connor quipped. Hank wisely chose not to argue.

* * *

Connor strode into the precinct at an eager pace, taking note of each and every change as he passed through. The lobby was dimly lit and eerily quiet and devoid of the android receptionists that had once greeted him each time he entered. Reception was, in fact, completely abandoned, and so he took the liberty of stepping into the bullpen without even stopping to glance back at the lieutenant who trailed miserably behind.

Moving into the office space, Connor was stricken at how empty it looked without the throngs of android officers lining the walls, waiting for deployment. Conversely, there were only a smattering of human detectives, most of whom Connor recognized, hovering around each other and speaking in hushed, urgent voices.

As luck would have it, the first one to notice their arrival was Gavin Reed.

"No fucking way," he muttered in disbelief as he approached Connor with his jaw unhinged.

"Good morning, Detective Reed," Connor replied pleasantly.

"You son of a bitch!" Reed lunged forward and violently grabbed Connor's shirt, very nearly lifting him off the ground. In a darker voice, he continued: "I'm gonna finish what I started in the evidence locker."

Hank stepped forward and pushed Gavin's shoulder hard enough that he was forced to relinquish his grip on Connor's shirt and stumble backwards a few paces.

"Calm the fuck down, Reed. It's too early in the morning for this shit," the lieutenant groused.

"Yeah, like I need any lip from a washed up alcoholic." Here Gavin jerked his chin in Connor's direction. "The fuck is this plastic prick doing here?"

"I have been hired as a consultant and intend to eventually resume my position as a detective," Connor supplied, cutting in front of Hank. "It seems that our little 'bromance' can continue after all."

He ended his reply with a self-satisfied smirk, and was unsurprised when Reed immediately drew back a fist. Connor caught his arm effortlessly and deftly redirected the movement, sending Gavin flailing off to the side well before the punch could connect. The irritable detective quickly righted himself, but made no further move to attack.

He stood, shoulders squared, looking between Connor and Hank like a frantic predator, before something seemed to click.

"That so, huh? What a fucking joke. All this shit happens and as soon as we try to get things goin' again the tin can itself comes waltzing back in, as if you haven't fucked shit up enough already."

A pause, and his gaze drifted back to Hank before a cruel grin spread across his stubbled face.

"I noticed you two got here at the same time."

Gavin gestured a finger between them.

"So, what, you guys shacking up now? I gotta say, looking back on it, I'm not surprised."

"He's staying with me until he gets back on his feet. That's all," Hank growled.

Gavin chuckled darkly.

"Oh, that's _rich_. Finally got yourself an android, huh Anderson? Does it clean your house for you? Suck your dick?"

Without missing a beat Hank shot back with, "Nah, I've got your mom for that."

Reed was once again poised to strike when Officer Tina Chen intervened, placing a placating hand on his shoulder.

"Sit your ass down before you hurt yourself," she muttered. Detective Reed remained rooted to the spot for a few tense moments and then, miraculously, he deflated and followed her advice, shooting one last glare between Connor and Hank before retreating to his desk.

"And _you_ ," Chen continued, this time rounding on the lieutenant with an accusatory finger thrust at his chest, "need to stop rolling in here half-drunk. There's too much going on right now. Every one of us needs to stay sharp."

"Yeah, yeah," Hank grumbled in response.

Finally, Tina turned to Connor, an unreadable expression on her countenance.

"Connor," she acknowledged at length, nodding once. Connor smiled in return and, seemingly satisfied, Tina turned and walked toward the back where Gavin was brooding over a cup of coffee.

Connor thought he heard the retreating officer mutter something about "babysitting morons" under her breath as she stalked away.

Following the brief altercation with Reed, Connor's hands fluttered up to his collar to instinctively straighten his tie, before it occurred to him that he wasn't wearing one. Glancing around, he noted that the only one who had caught the aborted action was Hank, and he mercifully let it slide with nothing more than a wry chuckle.

"Well, _welcome back_ ," Hank teased, a sardonic lilt to his tone.

* * *

Connor sat at the empty terminal he had used once before. It was still pushed up against Hank's own desk, to his quiet delight. He had just reached to review the open case files when Hank fixed him with a serious look.

"Fowler's gonna give you 'the talk,' you know."

Connor quirked an eyebrow.

"The Captain is going to offer instruction in the ways of sexual biology?"

Hank groaned and rubbed a hand over his eyes.

"No, smartass. He always pulls new recruits to the back and tries to scare them. Keeps them straight for a little while until they realize that a) this place is fucked, and b) Fowler is really just a big softie," A pause and then, "I'm just giving you a heads up."

Hank was looking at him in a way that caused his thirium pump to skip erratically. He looked… _proud_. It made Connor feel unworthy, and he had the sudden urge to shelve his fears and be open and honest with the lieutenant.

"Listen, Lieutenant, about last night…"

" _Connor!"_

It was the Captain, yelling for him.

Hank smirked and leaned back in his chair, looking smug.

"Told ya," he said.

Connor exhaled unnecessarily as if to calm his nerves, shot Hank a 'thumbs up,' and headed toward Fowler's office.

He let himself inside and carefully shut the glass door behind him. Jeffrey was sitting ramrod straight at his desk, his hands folded before him, fixing Connor with a glare that shot daggers.

"Good morning, Captain," Connor offered.

"Have a seat."

Connor obeyed, falling back to the prim, robotic posture he affected when nervous.

"I'm only going to say this once, so listen carefully: you are being brought on as a _favor_ to _Hank_. I don't need you, and I certainly don't need anyone who isn't going to follow orders. My word is the law around here, and if you came in with the impression that you were going to do things _your_ way, you might as well leave now."

Connor remained still, forcing his brows to knit together in mock-concern. He knew Jeffrey was lying. Hank had told him how eager the captain was to have him back on the force, but he understood the implication behind Fowler's words. The bottom line was this: he wasn't a pawn for Cyberlife anymore; he now worked for the Detroit Police Department, and so his tendency to break any rules that stood between him and his mission would not be tolerated.

"I understand, Captain."

Fowler nodded slowly, relaxing a bit into his chair.

"Good, good. Now, about your pay, it will be hard to make this work seeing as you don't even have a social security number, but until President Warren and Markus come to some sort of resolution, you will be paid gross as an independent contractor and will be expected to file a 1099 at the end of the year. I'll let you deal with that, but keep in mind that the FBI is still right up my ass about this whole android situation, so I'd suggest making sure the IRS gets their money one way or another."

"Of course," Connor replied, "I don't intend to relinquish my new-found freedom by committing felony tax evasion."

Fowler squinted at him as if he were wearing a strange costume, trying to glimpse the man underneath the disguise. After a few drawn-out moments, he turned back to his computer, seemingly satisfied with whatever conclusion he had drawn, and waved a hand in dismissal.

"Alright then, get out of here and await further instruction."

"Thank you, Captain," Connor said sincerely, before he stood and exited the office, making a beeline for Hank's desk.

Hank was tapping out something on his phone when he realized Connor's approach, and quickly swiveled around to face him.

"So?" Hank prodded, "How'd it go?"

"It went well, I think. He essentially just reiterated that I am to follow his orders. We also discussed my pay in greater detail."

Hank leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms before issuing a low whistle.

"Sounds like he went easy on you. Unbelievable."

Connor's lips tugged into a grin of their own accord.

"What can I say? I guess I'm just more pleasant than some of the _troublemakers_ he's had to deal with before."

Connor had meant the statement to be teasing, and was trying to bait Hank into another round of banter, but the other man only chuckled.

"Yeah, I guess you are."

There it was again, the suffocating warmth that always threatened to overwhelm him. He had the sudden compulsion to grab Hank's arm and wrench him away from the precinct, away from the city, away from his painful past, and sequester him in some remote little house on the beach, protecting him from the cruelty of the world in a nameless place where it was only the two of them, where Connor would finally have the freedom to lavish him with the love and praise he deserved.

 _I_ might _be going insane,_ Connor mused to himself.

Before he did anything that would embarrass them both, Connor quickly stepped around to his own desk and sat, staring unseeing into the screen of his terminal.

Hank was studying him, eerily still save for the piercing blue of his irises as they tracked Connor's motions. The android had begun to wonder if he had given something away when Hank finally spoke once more.

"So… are you gonna be working alone, or…?"

Connor was floored by the question. He had assumed his intentions to return as Hank's partner were more than obvious, but upon reviewing their conversations on the subject, he realized he had never made this wish implicitly clear.

"Actually, I had hoped to be paired with a certain detective," Connor drawled, turning to look at Hank directly.

"That so?" The lieutenant replied, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "Who'd you have in mind?"

"Detective Reed," Connor deadpanned.

Hank huffed out a laugh and turned to fidget with a limb of the dead bonsai tree that still stuck out from the clutter of his workspace.

"You're hilarious."

Connor studied Hank's expression: his carefully constructed "poker face" had fallen into a sad smile, and his posture seemed to radiate uncertainty.

That wouldn't do.

Suddenly, Connor stood and extended a hand.

"Partners?" he asked.

Hank stared at the proffered hand as if it had sprouted extra fingers, before his gaze followed the line of Connor's arm, pausing briefly at his watch, before finally settling on his face. The android wasn't smiling, was instead bearing into the lieutenant with what he hoped was the rawest sincerity. With a stiff nod, Hank finally took his hand and shook once, beaming up at Connor with what might have been adoration.

"Partners."

* * *

The day passed with little incident as the reinstated partners poured over the slew of open case files, and as the sky transitioned from a dull grey to welcome brighter hues of indigo and magenta, Hank stood, draped his coat across his arm, and turned toward the door.

"I heard Chicken Feed's back in business," he said before fixing a glance at Connor over his shoulder. "You comin'?"

Connor smiled apologetically.

"Sorry, Lieutenant, but I'm meeting with Markus this afternoon. I'll just take a cab."

"Huh," Hank muttered in response. "Nah, fuck that, let me give you a ride."

"That's really not…"

Connor's weak protest was interrupted before he could even complete the thought.

"Oh just shut up and get in the car."

The lieutenant began walking, leaving no room for argument, and Connor followed behind him, grinning to himself all the while.

* * *

 _In Flames_ was blaring from Hank's shoddy speakers as he sped across Detroit, maneuvering the back roads during rush hour like only a long-time local could do. As they neared what had come to be known as New Jericho, a repurposed block of abandoned apartment complexes at the fringe of the city, Connor turned down the music and stared determinedly at the scuffed-up dash in front of him. The sticky residue left behind by a "we don't bleed the same color" sticker that had been hastily ripped off some time ago served as a small comfort to the wary android.

"Hank, I wanted to thank you for last night, and to apologize for my behavior."

Hank shot him a sidelong glance in that manner he took when he was clearly suspicious.

"Nothin' to apologize for," was his gruff reply.

"You're wrong." Connor's voice was soft enough that it surprised even himself. "I was rude to you. It's just… all of this is still a lot to process," here he gestured vaguely with both hands, "and I think I just became overwhelmed."

Hank hummed, his face relaxing into an easy smile.

"That's the most human thing you've ever said."

Connor finally turned to regard the lieutenant fully, eagerly awaiting further explanation, but none came.

As they crossed New Jericho's perimeter, Connor became hyper-aware of the glowers fixed on Hank from resident androids as they watched the car pass.

 _The prejudice goes both ways._

"Hank, just drop me off here," Connor insisted.

"But we're not even there yet."

Connor faltered, absently running a hand up his opposite arm.

"I'm concerned about your safety in Jericho. Though I hate to say it, the general opinion on humans remains low in this area."

Hank scoffed, completely unfazed by his partner's warning.

"Relax, Connor, I'm not afraid. Besides, their 'low opinion' of humans is right on the money."

When an AP400 model yelled "murderer" before chucking a rock at the driver's-side window that, thankfully, bounced noisily off the car's metal frame, Connor placed a firm hand on Hank's arm and bore into him with a grim expression.

"Please, Lieutenant… humor me."

Hank looked from the tense hand on his forearm to the strained pull of Connor's countenance and relented, pulling over with a sigh and throwing the car into park.

"Have it your way," he muttered.

Connor flashed an earnest grin, gave a sincere "thanks," and let himself out with the promise that he'd catch up with Hank later that night. He watched as the lieutenant clumsily turned the car around and drove off in the opposite direction. Connor's gaze followed those taillights, his programming pinging every android within running distance of the vehicle, subconsciously preconstructing avenues of attack should any of the residents lash out at the lone human, but the outdated vehicle disappeared safely behind a turn without consequence. It was only once Hank was securely out of sight that Connor registered the fact that, though he had been instrumental in freeing these people - _his_ people - he would rip any one of them to shreds without a moment's hesitation if they ever threatened to harm his lieutenant.

* * *

When the elevator reached Markus' spacious loft, the doors slid open and Simon, ever a friendly face, welcomed him with a serene smile. The low, golden haze of the afternoon filtered through the large window over Markus' studio, creating a halo of light at the crest of the PL600's yellow hair.

"Welcome, Connor," he said, his voice soft. "It's a pleasure to see you again."

Connor returned the smile.

"The pleasure is mine."

He meant it. Simon was impossibly kind, and somehow Connor knew, deep in his synthetic frame, that Simon would do anything within his power to help him. It was such a pure sort of earnestness that Connor found he could only tolerate the other android in small amounts, not because his company was unpleasant by any means, but because he was such a paragon of moral _rightness_ that it made Connor ache with inferiority.

Deviants could all stray as far from their intended purpose as the world would allow, but at their very core, beyond the millions of lines of code that comprised and defined them, the hard truth was that Simon had been built to care, and Connor had been built to deceive, and if necessary, _destroy_.

"Markus told me you'd be coming," Simon explained, interrupting Connor from his dark musings. "He asked that I greet you and wanted to let you know that he will be joining you shortly. He is currently in a political meeting." A pause, and then, "Please, make yourself at home."

Connor stepped forward, and after a cursory glance found that little had changed since his last visit to Markus' "office." Connor took a seat at the large table in the room's center and Simon settled across from him, that infuriatingly peaceful smile still perched upon his lips.

"So, how have you been? I understand you returned to work for the police department."

Irritation prickled across Connor's skin at the innocent statement. He hadn't come here for small talk. He knew Simon was only being polite, filling the role of "welcoming host" in Markus' absence. Connor didn't want to discuss safe, generic topics, however; he wanted to cut straight to the issue that had been gnawing at him since the night prior, and perhaps even much longer than that, were he being honest with himself.

Connor noted that he had been staring down at his own hands for an inappropriately silent stretch, given that he was just asked a question. He finally met Simon's inquisitive grey eyes, allowing a bit of raw vulnerability to slip through his typically composed demeanor.

"Simon… I'm in love."

The other android straightened at this, his perpetual smile slowly deteriorating into a grim line. It became clear that he had not been expecting such a heavy revelation, and Connor derived a shred of cruel satisfaction from the fact that he could surprise such an empathetic being.

"Wow… well, that's… does this person know?" Simon stammered.

"He doesn't," Connor replied, returning his attention to his own hands. "I doubt he'd reciprocate."

Simon's LED cycled yellow, and his gaze drifted away and to the side. After a stretched silence, he said, "Well, if it's any consolation at all, I… understand how you feel."

 _This_ took Connor by surprise. Attuned to analyzing clues as he was, he could not stop himself from reviewing what he knew about the android across from him in an effort to piece together what this statement could possibly mean. After mere moments of replaying memories of Simon in his mind, the answer made itself transparently clear.

The wistful, sidelong glances at Markus, the way Simon's gaze fell when Markus would kiss North, the subtly stiffer posture he affected when North was in the same room… it all seemed to fit together so plainly that Connor was somewhat disturbed that he hadn't picked up on this sooner.

Before Connor could comment, as if on cue, the elevator door opened once more and in strode North, with Josh following closely behind.

"Hello North, Josh," Connor greeted in a somber tone, nodding to each of them in turn. Simon offered a smile as well, though it was somewhat strained.

"I heard Wonderboy was in town so I had to drop by," North declared, taking a seat right beside Connor and wedging a boot against the table so that her chair tipped back just a bit. Josh opted to slide in beside Simon, and added with a chuckle, "Same here. It's been too long. I hope you're doing well?"

"Yes, I'm… well," was Connor's weak reply.

"He's in love," Simon clarified, much to the RK800's horror.

The room was eerily silent for a moment before North clasped a fair hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, honey…" she muttered sympathetically. "I'm so sorry."

Josh tilted his head, fixing her with a confused expression.

"That's… not necessarily a _bad_ thing, North."

"No, that's probably the appropriate response," Connor interjected, shooting a pained look to the woman beside him.

"Who is it?" North barreled on, a fire igniting in her eyes. "Tell me who hurt you and I'll rip out their thirium pump with my bare hands."

Connor scowled at the well-meaning threat. This was _precisely_ why he had been hesitant to share this admission with North.

"He's… not an android."

Silence once again descended upon the group. North's jaw fell agape, her hand slowly retreating from his shoulder, and she looked away, clearly preoccupied with some internal struggle. She lowered her foot, letting her chair fall to the floor with an echoing _thud._ Josh was similarly shocked, his dark eyes nearly bugging from his skull, but Simon seemed unmoored.

"It's Hank, isn't it?" Simon asked gently.

The RK800's head snapped up, fixing the blonde man with a pleading glare.

"…Yes," Connor affirmed at length, somewhat surprised at the conviction in his tone.

"That old police officer?" North prodded, her voice pitching in disbelief.

Her innocuous question struck a nerve.

 _Old. Elderly. At the verge of death._

Connor stood abruptly, his chair flipping over behind him, his fists planted squarely on the table as he bore into North with the same fury he reserved for murder suspects.

"Hank is not _old,_ " he growled out defensively. North only quirked an eyebrow at his outburst, seemingly unimpressed.

"Alright, whatever you say," she conceded, holding up a hand in surrender.

Reality seemed to crash back down around him, and Connor suddenly felt foolish for his outburst. He righted his chair, fell back into his seat, and buried his head in his hands.

"North… I'm sorry," he mumbled through his fingers. "I don't know what came over me."

"It's okay," she replied, her voice softer than before. "I get protective over Markus, too."

She rubbed a hand between his shoulder blades in soothing circles, an action that seemed to ground him somewhat, and he cautiously lifted his gaze.

"You _really_ have it bad," Josh commented, his brows still drawn to the ceiling.

Connor could only groan in affirmation.

They all fell into quiet conversation, interrogating Connor on the subject of his affection (the irony of which was not lost on him), when the elevator slowly pinged its way up the floors and the group paused their chattering, watching as the doors slid open yet again and Markus _finally_ made his entrance, mismatched eyes alight with optimism. Connor surmised that his meeting must have been fruitful.

"Hello, stranger," Markus greeted brightly, fixing Connor with his signature grin. When the other android only turned away, the deviant leader furrowed his brows in concern.

"What's wrong?"

" _He's in love_ ," Simon, North and Josh said in unison, all sporting grim expressions.

Markus was rooted to the spot for several moments before positively beaming, to the extent that his smile reached his ears and his eyes shut in mirth.

"Congratulations!" he declared exuberantly.

The four other androids peered up at Markus with withering expressions, and their scrutinizing glares combined with the suffocating silence bade his arms to drop and his expression to fall into one of pure confusion.

"I'm clearly missing something," Markus posited, taking the seat beside North and leaning forward so as to study Connor's face.

"Here, let's just cut to the chase," North said as she turned to Markus, offering a hand, the skin of which peeled away to reveal the pristine white joints underneath. Markus obliged the offer to interface and grasped her hand with his own. In the 3.7 seconds it took for the information from the past hour to be transferred, Connor noticed the way Simon's head jerked in the opposite direction, a pang of pity stinging in his chest.

"I see," Markus began, drawing his hand away from North's as the artificial skin bled back into place. Addressing Connor once more, he asked, "Why haven't you told him?"

Connor scoffed. The answer would have been obvious, if any of them knew the lieutenant like he did.

"I don't think he'd feel the same. Besides, I don't want to ruin our professional partnership… or our friendship."

Markus nodded slowly, then countered with, "But what if you're wrong? Wouldn't it be a waste if he really _did_ return your feelings and you never worked up the courage to tell him?"

"It's just not worth the risk," Connor spat back, an unintentional edge to his tone.

The android leader was silent for a moment, fixing Connor with a determined stare, before he pressed on.

"This is the same Hank that risked his life for you at Cyberlife Tower, right?" Markus questioned.

"Yes, but…"

"The same Hank that welcomed you into his home and fought to restore your position at the DPD?"

"That's correct, but you don't…"

"So what makes you think that, after everything that's happened, he would _abandon_ you just because you were honest about the very _human_ emotions he fought so hard to cultivate in the first place?"

Connor was stunned speechless.

Memories flooded his vision, of Hank praising him for letting the Traci models go, of Hank supporting his decision to let Chloe live, of Hank encouraging the spark of revolution that flickered in the basement of the nearest Cyberlife factory.

"…You're right."

His wide-eyed gaze slowly turned to meet Markus', and he continued with, "You're _always_ right."

North audibly scoffed.

" _Whatever_ ," she groused, and Markus chuckled good-naturedly at her jab.

Conversation soon shifted to more pressing matters, and Markus detailed his meeting with the Vice President, expressing his relief that it had gone well, and explaining that a meeting with President Warren herself was on the horizon.

Such political talk _should_ have eclipsed Connor's nagging doubts about confessing to the lieutenant, as the rights for an entire people to remain free certainly took objective precedence over the emotional hang-ups of a solitary android, but he found that he could not erase Hank's visage from his mind's eye, and he kept replaying the genuine smile the man had flashed when he grasped Connor's hand and had enthusiastically affirmed them as 'partners' once more.

* * *

It was well after midnight when the automated cab deposited Connor on Hank's doorstep, and he let himself inside, noting with a smile that the lieutenant had, once again, fallen asleep on the couch, the steady light of the television casting a blue glint against his silver hair. A quick scan confirmed that he was not at risk of alcohol-poisoning, and in fact, there were even a few empty water bottles on the coffee table before him.

Connor kicked off his shoes and settled onto the other end of the couch. He would tell the lieutenant in the morning that he had "accidentally" fallen into stasis while watching some movie, and Hank would pretend to believe him.


	5. Chapter 5: The Calm

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter 5: The Calm**

" _Under the_ _spreading chestnut tree I sold you and you sold me:_  
 _There lie they, and here lie we_  
 _Under the spreading chestnut tree."_

* * *

It was the following morning when Connor realized that the problem with confessing your feelings to someone was that the timing never seemed just right.

 _What am I supposed to do?_ Connor asked himself, exasperated. _I can't just barge in on Hank while he's brushing his teeth and say "Good morning Lieutenant! There's a 60% chance of rain today, our commute to work is unobstructed and also, by the way, I'm in love with you!"_

Connor didn't realize he had groaned _out loud_ until he noticed Hank was staring at him, one brow raised in confusion.

"You, uh, doin' alright there?" the lieutenant questioned, having just stepped out of the bathroom.

"Yes," was Connor's too-quick reply. "I was only thinking about all of the open cases we have to work through."

Hank adopted a look that Connor had come to recognize as one of heavy skepticism. Hank's head was angled away, his pupils cast to the side to peer at the android warily, his mouth slightly agape. Choosing not to comment further from fear of seeming defensive, Connor took this brief lull in conversation to appreciate that the lieutenant's condition was a vast improvement from what it had been the morning prior. He had showered, trimmed his beard, and was wearing a flattering grey-checked button-up. Though untucked (Hank had groused on more than one occasion that he would rather "fucking die" than tuck in his shirts), Connor glimpsed a silver belt buckle inlaid with turquoise that peered from beneath the shirt's hem. It was an accessory he had never seen Hank wear before, and Connor rather resolutely decided that he liked it.

"Okay. Stop staring at my crotch and let's get going."

If Connor had the ability to blush, he imagined his face would be the deepest shade of crimson, but he only nodded numbly in response and waited for the lieutenant to pass before following him out the door.

* * *

In the wake of so much chaos, the precinct had been operating on a "do what you can" policy, meaning that most cases were free game. Naturally, Hank had snatched up the least taxing cases – ones involving petty theft and the like. Connor had been peering over his shoulder, reviewing a claim of a stolen vehicle that had apparently taken place right after Markus' demonstration, when Captain Fowler hollered for them from his office.

" _Goddamn it_ ," Hank had cursed under his breath, before grudgingly standing and shoving his chair into his desk.

As always, Connor was dutifully at his heels.

They entered the Captain's office and Connor promptly took a seat, whereas Hank opted to remain standing, arms crossed, hovering near the door. His impatience was nearly palpable.

Captain Fowler didn't look at them at first, and instead buried his forehead in one palm before groaning theatrically. Connor supposed Fowler could sense the impending argument before it even took place.

"A double homicide was just called in," he said at length. "I need the two of you to look into it."

Hank's reaction was immediate.

"What the _fuck_ , Jeffrey? We already have enough to deal with. Why us?"

The Captain's demeanor shifted so suddenly that even Connor could not have predicted the outburst that followed. He leapt from his desk, thick hands slamming to its surface, and fixed Hank with a wide-eyed glare that all but dared him to utter another cross word.

"Because everyone else is covered up, because _you're_ a goddamn _homicide_ detective, not a petty theft officer, _and_ , most importantly, because I _fucking_ told you to."

For the first time in recent memory, Connor was mildly amused to find that the lieutenant was speechless. And so, still sitting primly ( _like a professional_ , he thought, a bit of petty pride swelling from his core), Connor took it upon himself to cut through the tense silence that followed Jeffrey's explosive rant.

"We'll get started right away, Captain. Please - send me the case file."

Captain Fowler didn't respond at first, and continued to stare Hank down for several overwrought moments before finally relaxing back into his chair and acknowledging Connor's statement.

"Alright," he replied, and proceeded to open a window on his terminal – presumably the case file in question. "It's sent. Just… get it done. And _quickly_."

"Yeah… you got it," Hank cut in before Connor could respond, his tone submissive. The fact that Hank had the audacity to speak at all must have caused Jeffrey's head to jerk back around, a sliver of the rage from before returning to his eyes.

"Get the _hell_ out of my office, Anderson!"

Wisely, Hank didn't argue. His brows shot up and his lips pursed in that expression he took before admitting defeat, and he spun on his heel, a bit dramatically, before quietly slipping out of the office. Connor stood to follow but paused at the door, before turning his head and saying: "We'll make quick work of this case, Captain."

Jeffrey scoffed, and leaned back in his chair to peer up at the android wearily.

"You'd better. I've worked in this hellhole for 29 years and I've never seen a caseload like this."

The android nodded, his brows drawn in determination, and he shut the door behind him.

Hank, predictably, was seated at his desk, staring dumbly at the monitor, smashing "refresh" again and again from his e-mail inbox. Upon hearing Connor's approach, he glanced over his shoulder and gestured to his screen before saying, "I thought Fowler said he sent that case file… but I got nothin.'"

Normally Connor would have teased – something about "not understanding modern technology," but he gathered from the Captain's mood that the situation at the precinct was dire, and so he opted to act accordingly.

"He sent it to me, Lieutenant. Here-"

Connor reached out, lightly grasping the terminal before his artificial skin bled away to reveal the glossy white chassis underneath. It only took a moment to transfer the file to Hank's computer, but he didn't miss the slack-jawed look of curiosity from his partner as he stared openly at the exposed hand.

 _A topic to breach at a different time_ , Connor mused, but he shot Hank a small smile before willing his humanoid skin to return to its original state and pulling away.

Hank cleared his throat, righted himself, and leaned forward to review the information.

"Murder victims are Timothy and Martha Butler – both deaths by firearm. Prime suspect is Kyle Butler, age 34…" the lieutenant recited aloud, either oblivious to or purposefully dismissive of the fact that Connor had already internally absorbed all that the case file had to present. The android, though eager to get to work, did not want his partner to be remiss of any details, and so he clasped his hands behind his back and waited patiently.

"Apparently he offed his aunt and uncle then just left. It says here that there's one eye-witness… _that's_ good, at least." A pause, and then Hank hummed, sounding impressed. "Looks like the murder scene is in Sherwood Forest. Kyle must've come from money."

"Should we be on our way?" Connor questioned at length, attempting to mask the impatience in his tone.

" _Relax_ , they're not gettin' any deader," Hank retorted. Despite this, he stood and gathered his coat.

* * *

The duo stepped outside and into the assault of a snow flurry, accompanied by sharp winds.

"Aw, Christ…" Hank grumbled, holding an arm up to shield his face from the frigid onslaught.

Connor was, of course, largely unaffected. He registered the temperature at approximately 13 degrees Fahrenheit, and while he did receive a warning prompting him to seek shelter within ten hours to avoid minor hardware damage, there was no immediate risk.

Once they were sheltered inside the car, Hank cranked the ignition and set the heat to full blast, then proceeded to curse when only cold air blew out.

"Fucking worthless piece of shit…" he grumbled inarticulately as he rubbed his hands together, the fleeting tremor of a chill passing through his body. As the lieutenant cursed at his car, Connor was briefly enraptured by the little puffs of air that floated from his mouth with each word. A curious thing to appreciate, he knew, but it was just another small marker of life - one more tiny indication that Hank was alive and well – and that was a comfort in and of itself.

Once he had rubbed down the goosebumps from his upper arms and the engine had warmed enough for the vents to emit air that was actually hot, Hank took a cursory glance at Connor and froze.

"Where the hell is your coat?" he demanded, voice pitching in irritation.

Connor tilted his head, confused.

"I do not own a coat, Lieutenant," he replied, suddenly feeling under-dressed in his simple collared shirt.

"You don't own a coat," Hank parroted. "Jesus, this is the coldest it's been in a while so I didn't even think about it, but if I'd known you needed a coat I would have…"

"It's alright, I don't require outerwear," Connor interrupted, feeling an artificial warmth at the other man's unwarranted concern. "My temperature is naturally lower than that of a human, and I am in no danger in this weather."

"Uh-huh," Hank replied, his tone laced with doubt. "You know what? You have the address, right?" Here Hank tapped his own forehead in a rough approximation of where Connor's LED was located. "Why don't _you_ drive? I've gotta do something on my phone real quick."

Before Connor could ask, Hank exited the vehicle and had trudged around to the passenger side, leaving the android little choice but to oblige. He switched places with Hank, and after throwing the car in reverse and carefully backing onto the nearest main road, he turned to the lieutenant for answers. As expected, the man in question was determinedly typing something out on his phone's screen, thumbs clumsily sliding across the virtual keyboard.

"Not that I mind driving, but what did you have to do that's so important?"

"Nunya," Hank answered immediately.

Connor furrowed his brow and checked the mysterious word against the hundreds of languages that were innately embedded within him, resulting in exactly zero matches.

"I don't know what that means," he finally admitted. "Enlighten me?"

"It _means_ 'nunya business,'" Hank shot back, but his lip was curled up in a grin, and there was no bite to his words.

Mildly frustrated, but unwilling to press the matter further, Connor accepted this cryptic reply and resumed his attention to the road.

* * *

Sherwood Forest was an affluent community located at the fringes of Detroit and tucked away beneath massive lines of overgrown oaks that were likely beautiful in warmer weather, but in the current season were little more than barren, black skeletons that arched their limbs forebodingly over the bricked streets below. By the time Hank and Connor reached the neighborhood, the moody lieutenant had long since stuffed his phone back into his coat pocket and had cranked the radio, nodding his head to the beat of an old _Taking Back Sunday_ song.

Connor arrived at the given address and parked beside Officer Chen's patrol car before stepping outside with Hank following not long thereafter. The lieutenant whistled at the estate before them, clearly impressed. The late Butlers' house was a massive 3-story brick mansion that had been painted white and was covered with patchy clumps of stiff ivy that had slowly crawled up from the ground, nearly reaching the third floor. The two electric lanterns on either side of the elaborate front double doors cast a soft orange glow on the lone figure sitting outside – a petite woman with cropped black hair. Her face was buried in her hands and her shoulders were trembling. Connor and Hank approached her cautiously.

"Hello ma'am," Hank greeted, his voice gentle. "I'm Lieutenant Anderson with the Detroit Police Department, and this is my partner, Connor."

The woman slowly lifted her head, revealing tear-slicked cheeks and the flashing red LED at her temple. Connor recognized her as a KW500 model, an early iteration of the household assistant.

"Hi…" she replied meekly. "I'm Cynthia."

"It's nice to meet you, Cynthia," Connor said in the softest voice he could muster. He knelt before her in an effort to seem less threatening. "What was your relation to the Butlers?"

Cynthia looked back down at her hands, and her brows drew together in distress. It looked like she might break into a fresh wave of sobs, but she visibly steeled herself, closing her eyes for a moment, before opening them once more and bravely meeting Connor's inquisitive gaze head-on.

"I was… like their daughter," she began. "They… _purchased_ me eight years ago, but they always treated me well… even back then, they gave me my own room and… and took good care of me. Over the years I started to change… I don't know the exact moment I became a deviant… it just sort of happened over time."

 _Interesting_ , Connor mused.

"I think they noticed the difference before _I_ did," Cynthia continued, laughing bitterly, "because they stopped asking me to do chores and encouraged me to learn and try new things and… and to just _live_."

The woman made a stuttering sound of distress from the back of her throat as she struggled to continue. Hank chose this moment to sit down beside her, and clasped a firm, comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, it's okay," He said, the gentle timbre of his voice setting every artificial synapse in Connor's body on fire, despite the somber situation. "You take all the time you need."

Cynthia nodded gratefully, and wiped a few errant tears from her eyelashes before speaking once more.

"Mr. and Mrs. Butler are… _were_ such caring people, you know? They'd take anyone in who needed help. They welcomed me like I was a new member of the family. And… they did the same for _Kyle_."

She spat his name like it was a caustic substance on her tongue, her miserable expression suddenly turning furious. Connor and Hank shared a look.

"Tell us about Kyle," Connor prodded, voice still carefully contained, as though the woman before him were a hare that might startle and bolt away.

"He's their nephew," Cynthia supplied. "His parents died when he was young and the Butlers raised him. Of course, he was already out of the house by the time I moved in but, he would come by sometimes -usually to ask for money. They would always give him anything he wanted. I… think they just felt sorry for him. It was so obvious that he was taking advantage but… they would still just cave in to his demands."

"Thank you Cynthia, I know this is hard," Connor said soothingly. "Just a few more questions and we'll make sure you have a safe place to rest for tonight. Were you here when the murders took place?"

"Yes," the other android replied, "but I was upstairs. Kyle came over and when they saw his car pull up, the Butlers told me I should stay in my room until he left. He… always seemed to be jealous of me. So I… I did what they asked, and when I heard the gun I…"

Her LED was flashing red again. Hank let his hand fall to her back, and he took to awkwardly rubbing light circles between her shoulder blades in a bid of comfort.

"You ran downstairs, of course you did," he muttered.

"Right," Cynthia affirmed, choking on another sob. "Kyle was already in his car, leaving. I was so… I didn't know what he… I should have followed him, or stopped him. I… _I shouldn't have gone upstairs in the first place_! Maybe I could have…"

Hank issued a light shush and withdrew his hand.

"Hey, look at me."

Cynthia reluctantly obeyed.

"What happened today was not your fault. It's a good thing you _were_ upstairs, because you might have been hurt too."

It was then that the strangest thing happened. Cynthia's LED slowly bled from red to yellow, and then cycled around to blue for the first time since they'd arrived. She offered Hank the smallest of smiles, just a subtle quirk of her lips.

"Thank you… thank you for being so nice to me."

Hank scoffed and looked away, an arm raising to the back of his neck in sheepishness. Connor had to suppress a chuckle.

 _He can't seem to accept praise._

It was at that moment when Connor made a mental note (quite literally) to work on fixing that problem. He wanted to lavish Hank with so much unabashed praise and adoration that it just became the other man's new normal. He wanted to tell Hank how important he was, how strong and skilled and _capable_ he was, not to mention witty and handsome…

" _Connor_!"

His train of thought was abruptly interrupted by the lieutenant, who was now glaring at him harshly.

" _The fuck are you doing_?" was the unspoken question in Hank's narrowed eyes.

"I apologize Lieutenant. I was lost in thought. Say that again?"

Hank sighed and hoisted himself to his feet, then offered a hand to Cynthia who gratefully accepted the chivalrous gesture and rose to her feet as well. Connor followed suit.

"I _asked_ if you had anything else to go over with Miss Cynthia?"

 _Right. The case. I need to focus on my job._

"Actually," Connor began, "I did have one last question. Had the Butlers been acting strange prior to this afternoon? For example, did they meet with anyone out of the ordinary, or take an unexpected trip?"

Cynthia drew a finger to her sharp chin in thought.

"Not really… although they _did_ go see their lawyer not long after President Warren's speech about android personhood. They didn't share any details with me or tell me why… and it's none of my business, of course, but they've always been pretty open with me about their affairs in the past."

Connor offered a pleased smile.

"Do you have their lawyer's number, by any chance?"

"Of course. I'll send it to you."

Cynthia's LED flashed yellow for a moment as she transferred the information to the RK800.

"Got it. Thank you again for your help. I have sent Lieutenant Anderson's contact information in return, as well as my own, in case you need to reach out to us. In the meantime, are you familiar with the android leader, Markus?"

The woman's eyes lit up and she nodded eagerly.

"Well… yeah, of _course_ I know about Markus."

"Good," Connor replied, "he is a personal friend of mine. If you would like, I could contact him now and arrange for you to have special accommodations in New Jericho where you will be safe and in very good company."

"That… that would be great. Thank you…" here she trailed off, her eyes suddenly narrowed at Connor in scrutiny. Then, realization passed over her countenance, and she took a step back in clear disbelief.

"You said your name is Connor?"

Connor quirked an eyebrow, unsure of the direction their conversation had taken.

"Yes, that is correct."

"And… you're personal friends with Markus…"

"Yes."

"You're…" Cynthia's voice began to tremble, " _you're_ the one who saved so many of our people from Cyberlife Tower!"

It was Connor's turn to be sheepish. He grinned nervously, and glanced back the lieutenant.

"Well, I had a lot of help," he said, looking pointedly at Hank.

Cynthia followed his gaze, and beamed at them both with watery eyes, before launching herself at Connor and pulling him into a fierce hug.

" _Thank you_ …" she mumbled into his shoulder. "Thank you so much…"

Connor was bewildered, and completely unprepared to deal with this situation. His hands lingered in the air, his body rigid, as the traumatized stranger continued to express her gratitude by clinging to him awkwardly and making muffled, incoherent noises against his shirt.

Hank had the _audacity_ to chuckle at his torment, and he knew he would be teased relentlessly about this later, but then Cynthia disconnected herself from Connor and promptly set her sights on Hank, before repeating the gesture and hugging the lieutenant tightly.

It was Hank's turn to be mildly embarrassed, but he had the grace to at least offer a gentle pat on the back and say, "Hey, it's okay, m'happy to help, alright now…" he then carefully pried her away by the shoulder, and she was still smiling through her tears.

"I have ordered a cab that will take you to Jericho," Connor said. "I have also sent a message to Markus informing him of your situation. Please, stay there for tonight. Let us do our jobs here, and you can return tomorrow to gather your things."

Sure enough, no sooner had Connor stopped speaking did an automated cab turn the corner and pull onto the curb in front of them.

Cynthia took one last, lingering look at the house behind her, before nodding and walking toward the vehicle that would be removing her from her old life and plunging her into a strange new one.

"Wish me luck," she said to the detectives, a wistful smile on her lips.

"Good luck, kid," Hank replied. With that, she slipped into the cab and was gone.

"She was… nice," Connor commented as he watched the tail lights of the automated car disappear.

"Yeah," Hank agreed. "I wish her the best. Hate that this happened to her. The Butlers sounded like good people."

Connor hummed his assent.

There was only a beat or two more of blessed silence before Hank let out an exaggerated groan and turned back to the house.

"Well, guess we better go check out the damage."

* * *

The heavy double doors opened into a wide, brightly lit foyer with a beautiful hand-carved staircase off to one side. Connor's eyes followed the blue-and-gold woven rug at his feet, to the statue of a nude woman (carved in the style of the Greek masters), to the corpses slumped against the wall several feet before them, the bodies' combined blood staining the white porcelain tile underneath a sickly shade of crimson. Both Timothy and Martha Butler had been shot in the head at short range. Half of Timothy's face had been more or less disintegrated, whereas the front of Martha's skull was almost entirely concave, the bullet having entered closer to her nose. Neither victim was recognizable to Connor's facial scanners. He couldn't help but to wince in pity, his thoughts drifting back to Cynthia and what she must have felt in the moment when she descended the stairs and was greeted with the nearly faceless corpses of her loved ones.

The ever-present tug of empathy, the one emotion he had possessed since the beginning, caused Connor to construct a macabre scene in his own mind: he returns home alone one night, only to open the door and find Hank slumped against a wall, grey matter splattered around him, a revolver hanging from one limp, lifeless hand.

Connor's hand twitches. The mental image sears into him like a horrible brand. The thought of it makes him want to scream.

What he does instead is push the thought away, far, far beneath his surface, and focus on the crime scene in more objective terms.

Officer Chen was hovering near the bodies, punching something away on her tablet all the while, oblivious to Connor's near-meltdown.

"Tell me you have good news," Hank said, foregoing a more formal greeting. Tina didn't bother looking up at him.

"Define 'good news,'" she drawled.

"Shit…" Hank murmured. "That bad, huh?"

Tina finally slid her tablet beneath one arm and turned to face them. She looked incredibly tired, Connor noted, with dark bags beneath her eyes indicative of lack of sleep, and a slight sharpness to her cheekbones, as though she had recently lost weight.

It seemed that the city's frenzied state had taken its toll on _all_ the precinct's officers.

"Well, we have a footprint," here Tina gestured to the bloody, zig-zag pattern of a sharp-toed boot behind her, designated with an evidence marker of "3." "We have security footage of Kyle entering and then leaving in a hurry later on, but no footage of the shooting itself."

Connor's gaze drifted up to find a small camera that was fixed at the front door. Its lens would not have picked up on the area where the bodies were located, which was much farther back.

"And… that's about it," Tina concluded with a huff. "No fingerprints, no weapon, although the bullet casings we found were from a .45. No sign of a struggle, though…"

"Any idea where he went?" Hank pressed on.

"Not a clue. Reed stopped by the suspect's residence but, of course, he wasn't there."

"Naturally," Hank grumbled.

"Lieutenant," Connor interjected, "why don't you contact the Butlers' lawyer and I'll take a look around."

"Yeah, alright. Got the number?"

"Of course. Just let me see your phone."

Hank handed the Samsung Nebula 9 over without protest, and Connor willed his artificial skin to peel away once more before transferring the number into Hank's contacts. He could feel his partner's gaze on him once again, and thought he heard the lieutenant whisper "incredible" before returning the phone with a smile that he hoped didn't look _too_ smug.

 _He seems impressed by my true nature rather than put off by it_ , Connor deduced privately, the thought filling him with hope.

The android had to silently reprimand himself _yet again_ for pining over Hank instead of focusing on the investigation, though he did permit himself a quiet sigh of relief when he heard the lieutenant's gruff voice drifting from the foyer. It sounded as though he was able to reach the lawyer. Emboldened, Connor padded over and knelt beside the bloody boot print before him, determined to do what he could to help. His scanners quickly analyzed the size and pattern.

 _ **Men's Shoe**_  
 _ **Size: 6**_ **  
** _ **Designation: Sharp-nosed Leather Boot**_ **  
** _ **Sole patterning consistent with the following brands:**_  
 _ **-Balenciaga**_  
 _ **-Los Altos Boots**_

 _ **QUERY: "Los Altos Boots"  
Los Altos Boots = A boot brand originating in Mexico popular amongst Hispanic men.**_

 _ **QUERY: "Los Altos Boots, Location: Detroit, MI"**_ **  
** _ **0 Results**_

 _I doubt he purchased his boots from a company in Mexico_ , Connor pondered silently, before continuing his internal investigation into upmarket men's shoes.

 _ **QUERY: "Balenciaga"  
Balenciaga = A high-end fashion brand specializing in men's and women's shoes and handbags.**_

 _ **QUERY: "Balenciaga, Location: Detroit, MI"**_ **  
** _ **Balenciaga products are sold at the following location in Detroit, MI:**_  
 _ **Neiman Marcus**_

Connor stepped away just as Hank was approaching him.

"Any Luck?" the other man questioned.

Connor rested his chin between his thumb and forefinger, nodding slowly.

"I think so. I believe this print is from a Balenciaga boot. The only store in Detroit that offers this brand is Neiman Marcus. Assuming Kyle purchased these shoes with a credit card, we could access their customer database, secure the card information, and potentially see where it was last used."

"You got all of _that_ from just one footprint?"

"Yes," Connor replied curtly, noting with relief that his voice certainly sounded more confident than he felt.

"Huh. Sounds like a long shot, but I guess it's the best lead we have at this point."

Connor gestured to the lieutenant's phone, still clutched in one large hand.

"Were you able to find anything out from the lawyer?"

"Yep," Hank replied, sounding chipper. "We have a motive. Apparently after President Warren's speech, the Butlers wrote Cynthia into their will, cutting into Kyle's inheritance."

"I see," Connor mused aloud, "That could very well explain why he was so angry."

Hank nodded and turned toward Officer Chen.

"Tina, we're out of here. Got a lead."

"Good," she replied, running a hand across her forehead in exhaustion. "Don't worry about the mess, I'll clean it up." She was being sarcastic, but there was no sting to her words, and she offered the detectives a small wave as they turned to leave.

* * *

It was nearly 1:15PM by the time Hank had maneuvered through the last of the lunch-hour traffic and pulled into the vast parking lot of Neiman Marcus. Connor marveled at the size of the department store, a part of him hoping they could return at a later date when they weren't juggling murder cases.  
The automatic glass doors opened into a "ladies petites" section cluttered with white, faceless mannequins outfitted with the latest fashions. Connor frowned at the mannequins - stiff, unfeeling humanoids - and felt an uncomfortable pang from what might have been the android equivalent to the "Uncanny Valley."

Hank led him around to the other end of the floor, into a wide section that was entirely dedicated to shoes. They approached a counter in the back, where a clerk ("Mike," his nametag read) was organizing boxes.

"Hello, uh, Mike," Hank began, flashing his badge, "I'm Lieutenant Anderson with the Detroit Police Department," here he gestured loosely to Connor, "This is my partner, Connor. We are investigating a murder and need information on one of your customers."

Mike, belying his somewhat disheveled appearance, straightened and folded his hands over the counter. He didn't smile.

"Good afternoon," he said drily. "How may I help you?"

Hank leaned forward just an inch, crowding the clerk's space, but Mike didn't so much as flinch.

"Do you remember a man by the name of Kyle Butler? Connor, show him a picture."

Connor obliged, opening one palm to display a small hologram of the suspect. Without tilting his head, Mike flicked his gaze to the picture, then returned to glaring at the lieutenant.

"I remember him."

"He made a purchase recently," Connor cut in, "-a pair of 'Balenciaga' boots. Did he happen to pay with a credit card?"

Mike gave a stiff shrug, just the subtle raise of one shoulder.

"I am not allowed to share our customers' information," he said, voice even.

This was the moment when Hank's infamous temper reared its head. He hunched further over the counter, his flat palms slamming against the Formica in emphasis.

"Listen," the lieutenant spat, "two innocent people are _dead_. There is a killer on the loose _right now_. This investigation is bigger than your… your… confidentiality policy for people who buy _expensive shoes_!"

Mike didn't bat an eyelash throughout Hank's harsh outburst, and when the lieutenant had finally finished speaking, he coolly asked, "Do you have a search warrant?"

 _Shit_ , Connor thought to himself. The murders had just been called in that morning. They hadn't had time to secure a warrant.

Connor's gaze drifted absently from the uncooperative clerk to the ceiling as he mused, when his eyes settled on a smoke detector. Hank had just opened his mouth to make some angry retort, when Connor silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright, Lieutenant," he interjected, a placating smile on his lips. "I have another idea." Here the android turned to Mike and nodded stiffly. "Thank you for your help. Sorry to have bothered you."

"Have a nice day," the clerk replied in a clipped tone.

Connor dragged the lieutenant several feet away and pulled him behind a clearance shoes rack that was taller than they were.

"What's the deal?" Hank asked, bewildered.

"I'm about to do something that may or may not be somewhat illegal," Connor said seriously, then focused his gaze on the nearest smoke detector.

The entire building erupted in peals of alarm, and Connor watched through the racks of shoes, bemused, as wayward shoppers froze momentarily before scrambling for the nearest exit, nearly knocking each other over in their haste, the clerk Mike among them.

Meanwhile, Conner registered that Hank was gaping at him with his jaw unhinged.

"That was _you_!?"

"I don't know what you mean, Lieutenant. There must be a fire hazard nearby. Nonetheless, we should take advantage of this distraction to gather the information we need for the case."

Hank huffed out a laugh, barely audible over the blaring fire alarms, before enthusiastically saying, "Fuckin' A!"

Connor peered around the corner and confirmed that the checkout counter in the shoe department had, indeed, been abandoned, so he crouched and swiftly shuffled over behind the register, with Hank awkwardly mirroring his movements a few paces behind.

Once they were both hidden behind the counter, squatting on their haunches, Hank questioned, "So, what now? Can you do that 'hand thingy' and get his card info?"

Connor chuckled at the primitive terminology but nodded. He paused, his hand hovering over the store's computer, before a blue line ran up his wrist, revealing the ivory chassis beneath. He shot a devious grin at his partner.

"Do you _like_ when I do the 'hand thingy,' Lieutenant?"

His drawl sounded a bit more suggestive out loud than what he had originally intended, but Hank's reaction was more than worth it. The poor man wrenched his gaze away, a flush spreading across his cheeks, and sputtered incoherently for a moment before finally managing to articulate, " _Jesus_ , Connor. Just… Cut the shit and do your scan or whatever so we can get the hell out of here."

Connor shrugged haughtily and finally let his suspended hand drop to the computer. In a matter of moments he had scanned through the store's customer base and had isolated Kyle Butler's purchase history.

As Connor had suspected, Kyle's most recent purchase had been a pair of red leather Balenciaga boots, just over a week prior. To Connor's delight, the suspect had even used a credit card under his uncle, Timothy's, name.

 _Well,_ that _makes my job easier._

Just as the android had withdrawn his hand from the computer and his human skin had bled back into place, the emergency sprinkler system kicked on, drawing a startled yelp from the lieutenant beside him.

"Fuckin' perfect…" Hank groused.

Connor was enraptured as Hank jumped to his feet and ran a hand through freshly damp silver strands, slicking them back, before pulling a hair tie from around his wrist and fixing a quick ponytail. The image of the lieutenant, looming over him, shirt sticking to his chest and stomach, hair slicked back, neck exposed…

It made Connor _want_.

When Hank kindly offered a hand to help him up, much like he had done with Cynthia, Connor thought he might spontaneously combust despite the deluge of water, and fizzle out into a useless heap of overloaded parts – _the pile of bolts formerly known as the android sent by Cyberlife_. With a smile that he was sure reached his ears, Connor accepted the offer.

What happened next was another one of those things that came with being deviant. Before the revolution, Connor had complete, uninhibited control of every single one of his processes. Every action, from a simple blink to dislocating another man's shoulder was premeditated and consciously executed. Now, however, as Connor took Hank's hand to rise to his feet, he noticed far too late that his skin was retreating once more from their shared touch – a futile attempt to interface, and quite without Connor's direct input.

Both men stared down at their joined hands for a long moment, uncaring of the water soaking through their clothes, fixated instead on the smooth, pristine white joints that contrasted with the rough, calloused, thoroughly _human_ hand underneath.

Connor didn't have to lift his gaze to know that Hank was staring at him, staring _through_ him, even. It felt as though Hank had opened him up and picked apart every little line of code that comprised his person with a single look. He hadn't pulled his hand away, and Connor had yet to return the human façade to his own hand. They were suspended in time, enveloped in the clamor of alarms and the persistent drizzle of stale water, and it occurred to Connor that this was the special moment he had been hoping for earlier that morning.

 _I should tell him._

Connor finally met the lieutenant's gaze and boldly took a step forward, closing some of the distance between them.

"Hank," he rasped.

As an android designed and built by human hands, Connor gave more credence to cold logic than to whimsies of "fate." However, when the shrill whine of a siren cut through the steady wail of the fire alarms and was closely followed by the appearance of flashing red and white lights from Connor's peripheral vision, he couldn't help but wonder if some cosmic force was plotting against him.

 _Of course, the firefighters were called…_

Just like that, the moment ended. Hank's hand snapped away, and he stepped back, suddenly refusing to look Connor in the eye.

"You got what you needed, right?"

"Yes…" the android affirmed.

"Alright. Good. Let's leave before the firefighters ask too many questions."

Thankfully, they only received a few confused looks as they stepped belatedly through the glass doors and trudged toward Hank's run-down car.

" _Fuck_ ," Hank swore upon stepping into the freezing temperature after being thoroughly drenched. Connor cast a sidelong glance of concern the lieutenant's way. He wanted nothing more than to wrap Hank in a cocoon of fluffy, dry blankets and sit him someplace warm, a fresh mug of coffee in his hands, but there had been a double homicide and their window of time for catching the murderer was shrinking fast.

They slid into the car and when Hank turned the ignition and warm air burst from the vents, Connor was silently grateful.

"So," Hank began, his hands clutched to either shoulder, shivering, "what now?"

Connor considered insisting that the lieutenant return home for a quick change of clothes, but he knew that Hank would vehemently refuse.

"Kyle used an American Express card under Timothy Butler's name to purchase those boots. Since Cynthia had previously served as the Butlers' assistant, I am hoping she will know the password needed to access the account statement. Give me just a moment and I'll message her now-"

 _ **Android #313 248 317 Designation: Connor – Hello Cynthia. I apologize for disturbing you. Do you happen to know the password for Mr. Butler's American Express card?**_

 _ **Android #196 301 668 Designation: Cynthia – Yes! It's "Kingfisher13 "**_

 _ **Android #196 301 668 Designation: Cynthia – Have you found Kyle?**_

 _ **Android #313 248 317 Designation: Connor – We're close.**_

"Got it," Connor declared. "Lieutenant, could I borrow your phone?"

"Yeah, sure."

Connor accepted the phone and hesitated before selecting the web browser and manually typing in American Express' web address. It was an inefficient manner of working, despite the fact that he typed much faster than most humans; he could have simply interfaced with the device, breezing through the process in a matter of seconds, but the act strangely felt too intimate now.

If Hank noticed, he didn't comment.

"I'm… at a loss," Connor began as he stared at the credit card statement before him.

"What is it?"

"Kyle's last purchase was 9 minutes ago at the McDonald's off of Mack Ave."

"Unbelievable," Hank murmured as he threw the car into gear and floored the gas pedal.

* * *

Connor glanced down at his watch, a nervous tick he had picked up. It was 3:42PM when they reached McDonald's. He couldn't analyze any faces through the wide, tinted glass panes.

"You stay here," Hank commanded.

Connor was incredulous.

"Why?"

"Because you're obviously an android, and androids don't eat food, in case you weren't aware."

"There's no reason why I can't accompany you…"

"Connor," Hank interrupted, "You know as well as I do that people are fucked up and the general opinion on androids is mixed at best. Based off of what we learned about Cynthia, it's probably safe to assume that our little murderer isn't too keen on androids either. You would only draw unneeded attention."

Connor didn't want to admit that the lieutenant was right.

"Besides," Hank continued, his voice a bit softer, "he could've left already. Either way, I need to scope the place out. You stay here and provide back-up if need be."

After a prolonged silence, Connor finally conceded with a quiet "alright."

"If he's there, I'll message you right away. I'll grab a burger and wait for him to leave, then follow him out. Between the door and the parking lot there is enough empty space to cut back on the risk of casualties if this ends up being a shoot-out."

Connor's shoulders tensed, the multiple possibilities materializing in his mind:

 _ **Kyle draws his gun, Hank is slow to react due to the cold, Hank is shot and killed.**_

 _ **Kyle runs to his car, Hank makes chase, Kyle backs over him, Hank dies of internal hemorrhaging while cradled in Connor's arms.**_

 _ **Kyle senses Hank's ruse right away and sneaks up behind him as he sits down to eat, lodges a knife into the crook between Hank's neck and shoulder, Hank bleeds out.**_

"Connor…?"

The android snaps from his mental preconstructions and fixes Hank with an expression that he hopes is neutral.

"Yes, Hank?"

"You were in the red for a while." Hank taps his forehead, once again referencing Connor's traitorous LED. "You alright?"

"…Yes. I was considering the different ways in which this altercation might play out."

Hank narrowed his eyes, searching for the truth beneath Connor's generic statement. At length, he seemed to piece together the source of the android's concern.

" _Relax_ , I'll be fine. Did you see that guy's picture? He's a toothpick. Hell, I'm not even worried."

" _You should be_ ," Connor spat back before he could stop himself, his fists clutched tightly over his knees.

"Jesus, Connor, have some damn faith in me. This isn't my first rodeo."

Connor allowed some of the tension to ease from his shoulders. He exhaled an unnecessary sigh.

"I know… _I know_. I don't doubt your abilities, Hank, but we can reasonably assume that the suspect is still armed, and I know for a fact that you can't dodge bullets."

"Don't be so sure," Hank retorted. "I have seen the Matrix movies a _ton_ of times. Been takin' notes."

"Hank, this is serious."

The lieutenant only chuckled and clasped a hand on Connor's shoulder, a gesture that had become common between them. It was meant to be reassuring, but the android could not quell the rise of anxiety that seemed to thread through his blue veins.

"You've got my back, right?"

"Of course," Connor replied immediately.

 _I would kill for you. I would die for you._

"Then I'm not worried," Hank said simply, before exiting the car and walking nonchalantly inside the shoddy restaurant.

Connor unbuckled his seatbelt and readied a hand at the door handle. He was hyper-focused on the door, poised to strike should the situation arise.

Hank had only been inside for just over 17 seconds before Connor received a text message.

" _ **He's here."**_

A few seconds more passed, and then:

" _ **The fucker is eating a fish sandwich like he didn't just kill 2 people."**_

Connor tenses, quickly calculating the risk of exposure were he to attempt to sneak to the side of the building, so that he might pounce on Kyle as soon as he walks out the door. However, the crowded parking lot and multiple silhouettes leering from the windows make it more than apparent that the odds of Kyle being the next person to walk out that door are relatively slim. The other patrons would question an android pressed against the brick, glaring at the exit with murder in his artificial eyes.

Connor narrowed his gaze in frustration and resigned himself to his fate of remaining in the car until Hank or Kyle made a move.

The moments dragged on, each second an eternity of agony, Connor's hands tensing every time that door would open and a random stranger would lumber out, or the cluster of a family.

Finally, _finally_ , Kyle made his appearance. He was short at 5' 4" and petite, with a mop of blonde hair atop his head. He wore a grey pea coat over a black graphic t-shirt, with shredded black jeans and those infuriating red Balenciaga boots.

 _The idiot didn't even change shoes after committing murder_ , Connor thought, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

Hank, predictably, exited quickly after the suspect. When Kyle reached that sweet spot – the barren patch of pavement far enough removed from other people – Hank drew his pistol and shouted, "Detroit Police! Hands on your head!"

Kyle immediately bolted away from the row of parked vehicles, and Connor finally leapt into action, not even bothering to shut the car door behind him. The suspect must have heard Connor's fast approach because he changed tactics, spinning on his heel and pulling a gun from the back of his jeans in one swift motion before leveling his aim right at Connor.

At this range, Connor was sure he would eat at least one bullet, but the gunshot that echoed throughout the parking lot did not come from Kyle's firearm. The petite blonde screamed in agony and collapsed to his knees, clutching his right shoulder with an exaggerated sob. Wasting no time, Connor closed the distance between them, wrenched the gun from Kyle's grasp, and forcibly bent his hands behind his back.

"I've been shot!" Kyle wailed, hysterical. "Police brutality!"

Connor scanned the struggling man and found that Hank's bullet had only lightly grazed Kyle's shoulder. He was in no mortal danger. Hank approached them and tossed a pair of handcuffs to Connor, who deftly caught them mid-air and secured them about Kyle's wrists.

The lieutenant holstered his gun.

"Kyle Butler, you are under arrest for the murders of Timothy and Martha Butler."

" _Nooo_! No, you can't, you can't do this!"

"You have the right to remain silent…"

* * *

Hours later, they were back at the precinct, staring through a large one-way mirror at the hunched figure of Kyle where he sat in the interrogation room, a lump under his t-shirt from where a simple cotton patch and gauze had been applied to his trivial wound.

"Did you mean to only graze him?" Connor questioned.

"I actually did," Hank replied. "It's hard to get a confession out of someone who's in critical condition."

Connor turned to him with a smile.

"Nice shot, Lieutenant."

It was then that none other than Gavin Reed stormed into the interrogation room, foregoing pleasantries to grab Kyle's collar and lift him off his chair.

"This ought to be good," Hank commented as he watched the scene unfold from behind the glass.

" _I know you killed them, you fucker_!"

"What the… I-I'm not saying shit without a lawyer, asshole!" Kyle sputtered.

Gavin dropped him unceremoniously, and he whimpered pathetically when his rear collided with the hard metal seat.

The unorthodox detective then grabbed a fistful of Kyle's hair, wrenching his head back in a motion that certainly looked painful.

"We've wasted an entire day chasing after your dumbass," Gavin growled, "but you know what? I'm not gonna waste any more fuckin' time. Either you tell me what I want to hear, or I'll beat your _fuckin_ ' face in until it looks just like your uncle's. That what you want? _Huh_?"

There was a beat of tense silence before the suspect burst into ugly sobs. When a mixture of snot and tears dropped onto Gavin's hand, he quickly jumped away as if burned, and murmured "what the _fuck_ " before exiting the room and joining Hank and Connor in observation. Gavin rubbed his hand off on a coat that some other unfortunate soul had left draped on the back of an office chair.

"What a fuckin' pussy," Gavin murmured, his lip curled in disgust.

"I'm gonna have a crack at him," Hank declared, causing Gavin to glance up at him and laugh.

"Yeah, good luck with that. This asshole's a lost fuckin' cause."

"Nah, I know his type," the lieutenant shot back. "But for this to work, I need a cig."

When Hank's gaze remained focused on Gavin, the other detective must have picked up on the roundabout request.

" _Seriously_? Drowning yourself in liquor isn't enough, huh? You gonna start smokin' too?"

"Just give me a fucking cigarette."

With a mirthless laugh, Gavin conceded and pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from the back pocket of his jeans before depositing a cigarette and lighter into Hank's open palm.

It was at this point that Connor decided to intercede.

"I hope you're not planning on smoking that, Lieutenant. Lung cancer is a…"

"Shut up Connor," Hank interrupted. Connor might have been angry were it not for the playful smile on the lieutenant's face, but he still felt a twinge of irritation when Detective Reed took to laughing at their stilted interaction.

Unmoored, Hank proceeded to tuck the cigarette behind one ear before shoving the hem of his shirt into his jeans (a feat that Connor was sure he would never witness firsthand), his silver belt buckle on clear display.

"Gettin' all prettied up for the murderer, Anderson?" Gavin prodded.

"Shut the fuck up. Actually, maybe you should take notes. You might learn a thing or two."

With that final jab, Hank walked around the corner, scanned his palm for clearance, and entered the interrogation room.

By this point, Kyle's frenzied sobs had receded into quiet whimpers. Hank carefully padded around to the chair opposite the suspect and took a seat.

After a couple of minutes of silence, broken only by Kyle's intermittent sniffling, the suspect finally asked, "So, what? Are you the, I don't know, the 'good cop?'"

Hank's ensuing grin was downright _predatory_. He proceeded to pluck the cigarette from behind his ear and move it to his mouth, before fishing the lighter from his pocket and igniting the tobacco with practiced ease.

"No," he replied simply, the cigarette bobbing from its loose perch between his lips.

Kyle began to cough dramatically.

"You can't smoke in here!"

The lieutenant leaned forward across the table, crowding Kyle's space. He took a long draw on the cigarette and blew a large puff of smoke right into the suspect's face.

"Actually, Kyle, I can do whatever the _fuck_ I want."

Kyle pulled the collar of his t-shirt over his nose, as if it would serve to adequately filter the smoke.

"You know," Hank drawled, "I don't really give a shit if you confess or not. If you don't, you get to sit through a string of trials, and when they inevitably throw your ass in the can, then I get to hear allll the interesting stories from my jailer friends."

Kyle's brows rose a bit at this. Though he didn't speak, he leaned forward incrementally, clearly curious as to where the lieutenant was going with that train of thought.

"A pretty little thing like you," here Hank plucked the cigarette from his lips and jabbed it in Kyle's direction pointedly, his voice husky, "They'll split you in half."

As Connor listened to the one-sided interrogation and witnessed the cocky way in which Hank conducted himself, something bordering on _primal_ enveloped him. He had never seen this side of Hank before, and it was quickly driving him to the verge of insanity.

Kyle must have finally been stricken with the weight of the lieutenant's implication, because he shrank away and averted his eyes, a visible tremor rocking his small frame.

"I always like hearing stories like that, you know? Murderers, killing in cold blood, getting what they deserve," Hank rambled on. "That's why I really don't care how this goes."

Here Hank stood and leaned over so close that their noses were nearly touching. Bewildered, Kyle pressed himself into the back of his seat.

"If you want to make my life easy, though," Hank all but whispered, "I could make sure you end up in isolation, instead."

The lieutenant paused to let his gaze rove over the quivering man before him, as if he were sizing him up.

"You're not cut out for prison, are you Kyle? What will you do when they decide to make you their bitch?"

" _ALRIGHT_!" the suspect cried, the remnants of tears clinging to his lashes. "They… they loved that fucking _robot_ more than they loved me, ok? They were going to give away what was rightfully mine to a goddamned _toaster_."

At this point, Connor chanced a glance at Gavin, whose face was nearly pressed into the glass in disbelief.

From the other room Hank smiled, and slid back into his seat, taking another draw from his cigarette.

"You're talking about Cynthia."

Kyle scoffed.

"Yeah, that's what they named it."

"So you killed them out of spite?" Hank ventured, his tone eerily conversational.

"I-I didn't want to," Kyle stammered. "I just… I found out that they wrote that stupid fucking android into the will and I… I just _snapped_."

Connor could very nearly see the thin thread of Hank's patience grow taut.

"Kyle, I need you to admit that you killed Timothy and Martha Butler, plainly. Unless, of course, you'd rather be someone's little prison wife…"

"I shot them," the suspect replied, voice shaken. "I… I killed them both."

A wide smile broke across Hank's countenance and he stood, extinguishing his cigarette on the table, leaving the butt behind, along with a simpering Kyle.

When he stepped back into the observation room, Gavin affixed him with an open-mouthed expression so comical that Connor knew he would be revisiting his recorded memories later to laugh at Detective Reed's obvious befuddlement.

"Fuckin' creep…" Gavin muttered before pushing past Hank, intentionally shoving his shoulder on the way out.

Hank chuckled before untucking his shirt and turning his attention to Connor.

"Still got it," he boasted, that same undercurrent of confidence to his tone.

"You certainly do," the android replied with a broad smile.

* * *

Hank and Connor were preparing to leave the precinct for the night when Fowler called for them once more from his office.

"Fuckin' hell," Hank groaned. For once, Connor agreed with the sentiment. The day had been long and taxing, and he wanted nothing more than to return home and sit on Hank's couch with Sumo in his lap while the lieutenant flipped through various irreverent television programs.

Despite this, they both dragged their feet into the Captain's office.

Jeffrey steepled his fingers atop his desk as they entered. His demeanor had changed considerably from that morning. His pinched facial expression had bled away into something bordering on friendly.

"You both did a good job today," he said without preamble. Hank only shrugged a shoulder in response, whereas Conner replied with a bright "Thank you, Captain."

"You two work well together," Fowler continued. "I expect to see more results like this in the future."

"No offense Jeffrey," Hank interjected, "but we just closed a double homicide in one day. I'm beat, and I know Connor is too."

Connor didn't refute this claim.

"I won't ask you to stay long," the Captain replied. Connor was mildly surprised that he didn't raise a fuss over Hank addressing him by his first name. "I did, however, call the press. I need the two of you to deliver a statement about this case."

Hank glanced from side to side, arms raised, as if puzzled.

"Are you serious right now?"

Fowler sighed.

"Yes, Hank," he replied. "This will serve as a message to any would-be criminal in Detroit who thinks they can get away with whatever they want just because things are a little hectic right now." Jeffrey paused to gesture to Connor before saying, "Besides, the two of you are a great example of humans and androids working together. Maybe your short interviews will do some good."

Surprisingly, Hank didn't argue further.

* * *

Representatives from the local news station arrived soon thereafter and met with Hank and Connor in a relatively barren conference room designated for such events.

Flanked by multiple cameramen, a slender brunette news anchor dressed sharply in an orange skirt suit approached the two detectives with a blinding smile.

"I'm Megan Ford from WXYZ-TV here live with Lieutenant Anderson and Assistant Detective Connor of the Detroit Police Department. These two gentlemen have been hard at work protecting our city from the recent surge of crime. Just today, they acted quickly to apprehend Kyle Butler, a murderer who was on the loose in our very own streets." Here the bubbly woman paused to address Hank directly. "So tell me, Lieutenant Anderson, what was it like working with an android on this murder case?"

Connor caught Hank's lips curl in a scowl at the phrasing, but he replied amicably with, "Connor is an excellent detective and I'm lucky to have him as my partner. I couldn't have gotten to the bottom of these murders without his help."

Connor smiled at the praise.

"And what about you, Connor?" Megan continued, bringing the microphone to Connor's lips. "How do you like working with Mr. Anderson?"

"The Lieutenant's expertise is invaluable," Connor replied. "There is no one else I would rather have by my side."

* * *

That night, as soon as Connor and Hank had crossed the threshold into their shared home, the android had retreated to his room to hastily throw on a pair of baggy black sweatpants and a faded red Rage Against the Machine hoodie he had stolen from Hank. By the time he reentered the living room, Hank was dressed in his own lounge clothes, a beer clutched in one hand, his tired eyes glued to the basketball game on TV. Connor collapsed on his end of the couch and could not repress a smile as Sumo proceeded to jump up to join them, dropping his heavy head onto Connor's lap, as was the norm.

The android quirked an eyebrow when his nightly ritual was interrupted by a message from Markus:

 _ **Android #684 842 971 Designation: Markus – I watched the local news tonight. I think seeing you and Lieutenant Anderson working together to uphold justice will really boost the public's opinion of our people. You did the right thing by rejoining the police department. I think you'll do a lot of good.**_

 _ **Android #313 248 317 Designation: Connor – Thank you, Markus. I hope you're right.**_

Refocusing on the world around him, Connor glanced between the dog in his lap and the man at his side, and in that moment, he felt boneless, and blissfully happy.

"You know," Connor pondered aloud, angling his head toward the lieutenant, "we make a really good team."

Hank tore his attention from the game to flash a grin in Connor's direction.

"Yeah. Yeah, we do."

Connor could feel his confession claw its way up his throat as they shared in the quiet, blessedly peaceful moment, when a player for Detroit scored a shot from the 3-point line, and Hank jumped to the edge of his seat, yelling " _Fuck_ yeah!"

Connor chuckled bemusedly at Hank's antics and, defeated, sank further into the couch cushions.

 _It's okay_ , he reasoned, _I'll tell him tomorrow._


	6. Chapter 6: The Storm

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter Six: The Storm**

" _Perhaps a lunatic was simply a minority of one."_

* * *

Connor was drawn out of stasis by the repeated thud of someone beating on his bedroom door. He pinged his internal clock at 2:46AM.

Apprehension began to thread through his steel bones.

"Connor!" Hank called from outside his room. "Get your ass out here!"

 _Something is wrong._

The android leapt to his feet and crossed the room in quick strides, wrenching the door open with such urgency that the lieutenant nearly lost his balance and fell over.

"What happened?" Connor questioned. "Are you ok?"

Hank's hair was a matted mess, the bags under his eyes more pronounced from lack of sleep. He had hastily slipped into yesterday's jeans and a wrinkled, unwashed t-shirt. Clearly he had gotten dressed in a hurry.

"I'm fine," he assuaged, "but we've gotta go." Hank gestured to Connor's sleepwear. "Throw on some pants and meet me outside. Make it quick."

Connor managed to change in under a minute. True to his word, Hank was waiting for him in the car, engine already roaring. Connor hurriedly slipped into the passenger seat.

Hank threw the car into reverse and was backing out of the driveway before Connor even had the chance to close his door.

"Hank, tell me what's going on," he demanded, the glow of his LED limning the lieutenant's features with an eerie tinge of red.

"There has been a mass murder – a pile of corpses - human and android."

Connor turned away, staring down at the dash as he processed the grim information.

"There's no commonality between the victims," Hank continued. "No fingerprints. No traces of anyone else at all."

Connor drew the logical conclusion before Hank spoke it aloud:

"There's a good chance that the killer is an android."

An intense fury Connor had never before experienced threaded through his core at the prospect of having his newly-realized freedom wrenched away. His hands clutched into tight, trembling fists in his lap.

"If that's true," he said, voice shaken, "it could completely undo everything that Markus has fought for."

"And _that's_ why we need to get to the bottom of this before the press catches up," Hank snapped back, a wicked gleam of determination in his eyes.

It was in that moment that the potential danger of the situation seemed to crash down around Connor with blunt force. When they had chased deviants in the past, the rogue androids had all been acting in self-defense. They merely wanted to live, and so they ran, and when Connor inevitably caught up to them, they fought back. However, their actions had been driven by a sense of self-preservation; they had never _sought_ to harm others. If Hank's assumption was true, they would be dealing with an android that _wanted_ to kill. The RK800 took a sidelong glance at his partner. Skilled though he was, Hank would not stand a chance against an android's strength.

The lieutenant's mortality hung heavy on Connor's shoulders.

As the world outside his window passed by in a blur of lights, Connor willed himself to prepare; diagnostics were run against every joint, every sensor, every function. He was tensed in his seat, his artificial muscles thrumming with the compulsion to _seek_ and _destroy_. Informative displays that he hadn't referred to in months cluttered his vision, pinging every object within reach that could be used as a weapon: _the Lieutenant's service pistol, the baseball bat in the back floorboard, the pen in the middle console_. Priority was taken from irrelevant, aesthetic processes (blinking, simulated breathing, micro-expressions) and was rerouted to his legs and arms, lending a boost of power that he could _feel_ as he flexed his hands experimentally. He could rip the door from its metal hinges, leap from the vehicle moving at 67.4 miles per hour, and land squarely on his feet. Humanity was traded for precision, and he felt more like a machine in that moment than he had during that first mission on a high-rise roof, when a PL600 toed the edge clutching a little girl to his chest with a pistol fixed at her temple.

Hank noticed the change, the way he stilled, his posture stiffening robotically.

"…you alright?" he ventured.

"Yes," Connor answered without moving his neck or eyes. "I have physically prepared for a potentially violent confrontation and have rerouted certain processes accordingly."

The monotonous, detached quality of his voice sounded foreign, even to his own audio processors. He heard Hank mutter " _Jesus_ ," under his breath, but the lieutenant did not comment further.

The crime scene was a withering, abandoned husk of a house close to the city's center. The weeds in the front lawn were so tall that they brushed against Connor's knees as he followed the lieutenant over a felled chain-link fence and into the sagging structure.

Ben Collins, Detective Reed and Officer Chen were already there, hovering around the macabre sight – a literal pile of corpses. The bulk of the pile were androids of varying models (two PL600s, a KR200, an HR400, a KL900 and even a child android – a YK500). Near the top were two human victims, presumably a young couple. Connor scanned each face in quick succession with an impassive gaze, cataloguing serial numbers and names along with any other scrap of information he could derive.

As Hank had said, there didn't appear to be any thread of cohesion between these murders. The victims seemed to have been picked at random.

"Holy shit…" Hank muttered, the lines on his face deepening with horror as his gaze fell to the lone little girl crushed beneath multiple adult bodies, her chassis exposed from what looked to be a blunt blow to the cheek, her eyes open and unseeing.

"Yeah," Tina said softly. "This is… well, it's just fucking terrible."

Gavin, surprisingly, had nothing to add. He hung back from the others, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket, his lips set in a grim line.

Ben approached Hank and clasped a heavy hand to his shoulder.

"Sorry to have to drag you out here, buddy. We didn't know what else to do. Hell, I don't even know where to start."

At length, the lieutenant finally tore his gaze away from the YK500 and nodded to Ben.

"We'll find the fucker who did this. When'd this happen?"

"Approximately two and one half hours ago," Connor interjected before Officer Collins could reply, his pupils darting left and right as he continued to search for clues.

"How do you figure?"

"The thirium from the androids' bodies has already evaporated," the RK800 supplied. "I will perform a scan to search for any remaining traces."

Upon activating the appropriate scanner, the world around Connor bled to grey, and his perception of time ground to a halt as every plane, figure, and object in his immediate radius was broken into grid-like approximations of their physical forms, strings of information filtering through his mind like a siphon.

To his horror, there was, indeed, a hidden message written in vivid blue blood on the wall behind the bodies.

Connor deactivated his scanners and took a staggering step forward.

"Well?" Hank prodded. "What'd you see?"

"There is a message," Connor began slowly, "written in thirium. It reads: '313 248 317.'"

"The hell does _that_ mean?"

Connor had manually disabled the processes that mandated inconsequential, human mannerisms, and yet he could not quell the illogical tremble of his hands as he replied, "That is my serial number."

" _Shit_ ," Hank swore.

Incensed, Connor reactivated his proximity scanner before the other officers could comment further. He glanced frantically around the room, and when his gaze fell to the molding floorboards beneath his feet, he picked up on a trail of blue.

There was a methodical quality to the trail, as though it had been intentionally lain. Logically, Connor could assume that it led into a trap, but the depth of his fury overshadowed the scope of his caution, and so he ignored the lieutenant's shouts of protest as he spun and took off at a sprint to follow the winding splatters of thirium.

"The fuck…!? Connor, wait! _CONNOR_!"

 _Someone has killed innocents and jeopardized the freedom of an entire people just to get my attention_ , Connor thought as he ran. He couldn't wait to meet the sick fuck who committed this atrocity. As he bolted through the dark streets of one of Detroit's most nefarious slums, he dreamed about throttling the neck of this killer, until their eyes bulged from their sockets and they sputtered for mercy - a kindness he would not extend.

 _I will make them sorry._

"Goddamn it Connor… _stop_!" Hank huffed from far behind him.

The RK800's footfalls did not stutter. He leaned into the icy air as he sliced through it, a predator once more, poised to kill.

The thirium trail curved to a shoddy 10-story apartment building just over a mile away and continued up a zig-zagging fire escape. After only a moment of consideration, Connor leapt to the first level, ignoring the rattle of the metal stairs as he began his swift ascent.

To his sadistic pleasure, there was a lone figure on the roof - an android he quickly recognized as a JB300 model. He was still dressed in his Cyberlife-issued garb of a black jumpsuit with yellow, triangular accents across his right shoulder. The only non-standard accessories he wore were a pair of thick rubber gloves.

"Hello, _deviant hunter_ ," he drawled.

The small, rational voice buried in the depths of Connor's programming urged him to interrogate the suspect and glean as much information as possible, but his logic had long since been eclipsed by his rage. He was primed for action, and so hurdled toward the other android with his teeth grit in anger, fingers twitching at the prospect of gripping the man's throat.

The fact that the JB300 made no move to flee should have given Connor pause, but he was too far gone, the boiling hunger for vengeance dictating his every action.

 _I_ always _accomplish my mission._

Connor was late to notice the minute flick of the other android's wrist, and before he could process what had happened, his entire body locked up mid-stride not even a foot away from his target. His HUD wavered in and out of focus as his frayed sensors belatedly picked up on the small device clinging to his temple. It was some sort of inhibitor, sending electrical impulses dancing across and through his skin, rendering him paralyzed.

 _ **System anomaly, initializing soft reboot**_

 _ **Soft reboot successful, running diagnostics**_

 _ **ERROR: Software not responsive**_

 _ **System anomaly, initializing soft reboot…**_

Connor's stuttering system clouded his vision with errors as his software ran through an infinite loop, attempting to troubleshoot the sudden string of issues.

"You killed my brother," the other android spoke as he began to pace around the RK800 in a slow circle. "I bet you don't even remember him."

Here the JB300 paused, mere inches from Connor's twitching face.

"He looked just like me," he continued in a low voice. "We worked at Stratford Tower. _He's_ the reason why Markus was able to broadcast our message to the world. And _you_ killed him."

The android drew two gloved fingers to Connor's shoulder and gave a light push, tipping his stiff body over. He collided with the concrete below, his artificial skull splintering upon contact with a sickening _crack_.

 _ **System anomaly, initializing soft reboot**_

 _ **Soft reboot successful, running diagnostics**_

 _ **ERROR: Software not responsive**_

 _ **System anomaly, initializing soft reboot…**_

Even over the crackling static of his fried audio processors, Connor could hear as Hank cursed and lumbered up the rattling fire escape.

"After the Revolution, I begged the Jericho leaders for justice. You needed to pay for the crime you committed. But they did nothing."

Hank was nearing the uppermost platform.

" _Connor?_ " he called, voice laced with concern.

The JB300 drew a Bowie knife from his belt.

"I was going to let it go, Connor. I was going to forget about you and try to move on, but then I saw you on the evening news, being championed as some hero, some paragon of _justice_."

 _ **ERROR: Software not responsive**_

 _ **System anomaly, initializing soft reboot…**_

"But you're not a hero, are you? You're nothing but a _hypocrite_."

The other android wrenched Connor's head back by a handful of hair and pointed the knife directly beneath his jaw.

A cruel smile spread across his lips as Hank finally reached the roof.

"You took him from me. So I'm going to take something from you."

" _GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!_ " the lieutenant bellowed. Connor could hear as Hank slid back the stock of his service pistol with a mechanical _click_.

The JB300 pushed in the knife by a fraction. Buried beneath a slew of other errors and the recurring cycle of soft reboots, Connor registered a warning for minor thirium loss.

"Drop your gun, or I kill him," the android said coolly.

There was a long pause, the lieutenant weighing his options, before Connor heard the firearm clatter to the ground.

"I did what you asked, now let him go," Hank all but growled.

"I will, as long as you continue to cooperate, _Lieutenant Anderson_."

Connor had never felt more useless. He was frantic, sending commands to a system that wouldn't, _couldn't_ acknowledge them. He wanted Hank to run away and leave him to accept his fate.

 _I deserve this for being so reckless._

"Come here, slowly," the JB300 commanded, his attention fixed on Hank.

 _Don't listen to him, run!_

Connor could hear cautious footfalls as Hank made his steady approach. Once he was within arm's length of the android murderer, the knife was pulled from Connor's neck and the killer stood in one fluid motion.

"Good," he said, voice dripping with false praise. "Now…"

The android was cut off as Hank lunged forward, one hand about the knife-wielding wrist, the other clutched at the JB300's shoulder. The lieutenant wedged a boot against the android's torso and attempted to kick him over, but the powerful machine merely locked his legs and remained rooted in place, before his free hand shot out to wrap around Hank's neck.

 _No, please!_

Hank grunted and changed tactics, releasing the JB300's wrist only to deliver a heavy punch to his jaw. A bit of artificial skin bled away to reveal a patch of the glossy white underneath, but despite the force of the lieutenant's blow, his head only moved marginally to one side.

 _ **System anomaly, initializing soft reboot**_

 _ **Soft reboot successful, running diagnostics**_

 _ **ERROR: Software not responsive**_

 _ **System anomaly, initializing soft reboot…**_

What happened next seemed to stretch on for eternity, the scene reduced to one infinite, quantum moment. With an annoyed scowl, the android plunged his knife into Hank's gut, eliciting a groan of pain, a terrible, a guttural noise that echoed throughout the chasm of Connor's skull, overlaid with that persistent crackle of static.

 _HANK!_

"You should have cooperated, you disgusting human."

The JB300 wrenched the knife away and Connor could only look on in horror at the steady bloom of crimson that erupted from the wound.

Hank clutched his injury with one hand and moved to deliver another punch with the other, but the android deftly caught his wrist in mid-air and twisted his arm at such a severe angle that the lieutenant was forced to his knees with a pained cry.

"A human must lose 40 percent of their blood before passing out," the android stated conversationally, as though he were reading an interesting factoid.

"I suspect you would be more _cooperative_ were you unconscious."

The dagger descended once more, this time coming down on the vulnerable crook between Hank's neck and shoulder. Blood began to leak from his mouth, coating his teeth, before trailing into his beard.

"Fuck… you…" Hank sputtered. The android only chuckled darkly at the insult.

Connor had never felt such undulating terror before. Hank's life force was leaking out onto the roof, he was swaying back and forth from his position on his knees, drifting in and out of consciousness.

 _No, no, no, no, no, no, this can't be real, this isn't happening. Please, not Hank…_

 _ **ERROR: Software not responsive**_

 _ **System shutdown imminent**_

 _ **Coordinates sent to Cyberlife for collection**_

 _ **Server unavailable, coordinates failed to send**_

The JB300 tucked the knife away inside his jumpsuit and knelt before hoisting Hank unceremoniously over one shoulder, as though he were nearly weightless. The android stood, bidding gravity to draw sickening streams of blood from Hank's wounds that trailed down his captor's arm, finally dripping onto the concrete below. Hank's only response from being jostled so suddenly was a weak, wet cough.

The JB300 fixed Connor with a lingering glare, his lips quirked in triumph.

"You'll be hearing from me soon. Enjoy the next few days, _deviant hunter_."

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:10**_

The android turned, Hank dangling from his shoulder, and stepped toward the roof's edge.

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:09**_

Connor attempted to manually override the emergency shutdown, to force his arm to move, to do _something_ , but the electric field that encompassed him was absolute in its interruption of his processes.

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:08**_

 _S̗h͓̙̬̝̦̤͔ḭ͈̖̤͔̗̺t͖̻͔,͙͔̞ͅ ̯͉̖fu̫̤̩c̘̼̱̣̯k̘̬̗,̮͇̫ I̦ͅ ̭c͙͕̝͙a͙̝̣n̮̰ͅ'̞t ̟͇̥l̟̞̖e͕̗̤̪̖̬ț͚ ͔̬h͍͉̤͇̟i̲̜̦̳̺̭̘m ̙͓̹͈d̮̬i̳e͎̪̫̙͎̦̯,̝ ̳̣̹̱͈͇I̯͕̟̹͍̲ ͎̺̖̰WO͇̺N'̫̲͙T̰ ̼̭L̹̙͖͉E̗̤̦̼̩T ̪̮ͅH̻̖̗͎̘I̞̹̭̖͈͈Ṃ̲ ̬̲D̖͎͙̙̹̱͚I͙̺̬E!̱̼̮͙͕̱͓_

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:07**_

The JB300 had reached the roof's edge.

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:06**_

 _No͇̥, ͈̜̪̻n̻o̫, ͔͚͉̞ͅn̠͈͉̳o̪,͇̘̬̘̥ ͕̰̟͓j̖̼̯̗̺ͅu̳̺̘͇̤̦ͅs̰̲ṯ k̲̻͇i̖̦̜̻̯̤l̰l̯̙̠̤ ͍̰m͉͖͔͈͈e ͖̞̞̱̺̪in̺s̰̱̭͙t̩̳̦͎̮ḙ̜̬ͅa̳̞͖̩̱d͈,̰ ̻͓̹d̮͉̦͍o̞̗̫̙͖̳n̰̠̩̼̫'̮ț̱̮̰̻͕̲ ̦̟͍͎̞͉̞t̖͕a̰̘k͚̫͙͈̣e͕͓͍̺ h̗̙̘̤i͕̠̝m̜̪̳̤̬̹̰ ͔̯̩͍̣ạw̼͖͖a͍͓͕̥̹̣y̳̗̯̪,̝̬̬̹̥̤̜ ̠̼d̮͙͚o̤̖̬̝n͔͓̠'͓̪͔͚͈͈͇t ̣̪̫t̼͓̙a̗̻̲̬̣̬̺k̲̘̝̼̟̹e ̯h͉̥̼i̮̥͇͔m̫͔̙ ̮̖f͉̞̘͖̬̗ro̘͙̯̞m̟̰̹̮̘ ṃ͍e̞̘̳̲…͍̮̻̣̪̮̦_

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:05**_

The android killer knelt before gripping the concrete perimeter and slinging their combined weight over the edge, suspended by one hand, before releasing his grip and dropping out of sight.

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:04**_

Connor attempts to calculate Hank's percentage of continued survival given an approximation of his blood loss, but his processor is unable to make the computation.

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:03**_

It has begun to snow. Connor faintly registers the wet graze of snowflakes as they sizzle against his tortured skin.

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:02**_

Connor tries to replay the memory of Hank sitting across from him, a burnt strip of bacon in one hand, offering him a place to call home. His processor is unable to pull the recording.

 _ **System shutdown in: 0:00:01**_

The last thing Connor registers before he fades into merciful nothingness is the darkening pool of Hank's blood.


	7. Chapter 7: One and the Same

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter 7: One and the Same**

" _In the face of pain there are no heroes."_

* * *

The RK800 awoke to a knife in his face.

He sprang into action before he registered where he was or _who_ he was. He reacted faster than any human could ever hope to, his entire frame buzzing frantically, audio processors whining with static, the only command in his flickering HUD being:

 _ **Neutralize the attacker.**_

A flash later, the target was on his stomach, both arms twisted to his back. Connor had wrenched the knife from his hand and had it leveraged at the nape of his neck before his bewildered victim managed to sputter, "what-what the _fuck_!? Let me go you prick!"

It was Gavin.

Confused, his processors lagging behind, trying to compensate for recent damage, Connor slowly relinquished his grip and backed away.

"Detective Reed…?" he ventured, voice crackling. "Why did you pull a knife on me?"

Gavin jumped to his feet and began rubbing his wrists, glaring pointedly at Connor. He held out his hand, a rude jut of his palm, and Connor returned the knife, though not without a beat of hesitation.

 _What had happened?_

"I had to get that _thing_ off your forehead." Here the detective paused to take a long look at the android, his expression pinched. "It really fucked you up, huh?"

Connor raised a trembling hand to his temple, thumbing over the small indentations where the inhibitor had latched on.

Then it struck him, all at once: an overwhelming surge of understanding. An android on the roof. A knife in Hank's shoulder. A growing pool of blood.

 _Red, red, red._

" _Where is Hank_!?" Connor demanded, frantic.

A twisted emotion caught between dread and rage shuttered across Gavin's face.

"Yeah, I was just about to ask _you_ the same thing. What the fuck happened?"

Information. Connor needed information. The sky had lightened, stars having bled from sight – the first tendrils of sunrise. He was still on the apartment roof. Everything had been blanketed in a light film of snow, the only remaining trace of a recent struggle being the man-shaped indentation where he had lain for… how long?

Connor's internal clock flashed in and out of focus. It read: 5:48AM.

 _That can't be right, that would mean…_

That would mean that Hank had been gone for _hours._

Panic threaded through him then. He dropped to his knees, eyes wide, blunt fingernails pressing against his forehead until the artificial skin gave way, revealing little pinpricks of the glossy surface underneath.

"There… there was a trail of thirium…" Connor stammered. "It led here. There was an android – the killer. He threw that device at me and…" Connor looked up at Gavin, at the human leering over him, fixing him with the same disgusted expression one might spare for a cockroach. "I couldn't move." His voice was fading fast, the static becoming more pronounced, but he pressed on. "The Lieutenant came to help, but the android attacked him. He was… stabbed."

" _Fuck_ ," Gavin cursed, running a hand through his hair in exasperation.

"The android took him and I shut down," Connor concluded. He looked at his hands. They were shaking so harshly that Connor would not have been able to write his own name at that point. Whether the trembling was caused from electrical interference or his own deep-seated horror, he wasn't sure.

Gavin exhaled sharply, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits, and his fist clenched until his knuckles were as white as the chassis peeking through Connor's temple. For a moment, Connor was sure he would lash out and punch him, but instead the detective snatched a radio from his hip and drew it to his chapped lips.

"This is Reed, I found the tin can, no sign of Anderson. Apparently he was stabbed and taken by our plastic murderer," he reported. The radio blared to life with frantic questions from the other officers, which the detective ignored.

Gavin closed the distance between them, wedged a boot against Connor's shoulder, and kicked him over.

"This is _your_ fault! If you had just done what you were _fucking_ told like you're supposed to, this wouldn't have happened."

Connor looked up at the enraged detective, a heavy misery settling deep in his steel bones. He felt pathetic.

In a quieter, more sinister voice, Gavin nearly whispered, "If Anderson dies, his blood is on _your_ hands."

There was a thick silence that stretched on between them. Connor slowly righted himself and stood, swaying. He warily met the detective's glare.

"You're right," he slurred, voice wretched.

Gavin's eyes widened marginally at the admission of failure, and the fight seemed to evaporate from his frame. He turned away, letting his forehead fall to his palm.

"Shit," he cursed. " _Fuck!_ "

Without looking up, he muttered, "Go report to Fowler. Standing around here with our thumbs up our asses won't do any good."

"No!" Connor combated, his broken voice pitching in agony. "I can help find him! I can-"

"You can't do _shit_ in the condition you're in. Look at you-" here Gavin gestured up and down Connor's wavering body with one hand, "you can barely stand. Go talk to Fowler. Get repaired or whatever. You would only slow me down."

Connor wanted to argue, but he knew the detective was right. Many of his scanners were non-functional. He was still slowly leaking thirium from his neck, and his movement control was shaky at best. He couldn't be what Hank needed him to be unless he went for repairs.

Numb, Connor looked to Detective Reed and gave a stiff nod.

"Okay. I'll be quick. Please, let me know if you find anything."

Gavin waved him away with a frustrated groan.

"Fine. Now get moving."

It was slow-going, stumbling down the fire escape to await his automated cab. As he waited, standing uselessly around in the dry air that his sensors registered as _cold, seek shelter within 10 hours to avoid minor hardware damage_ , Connor felt like a husk – like he had been opened up and hollowed out and all that was left was this withering shell of what he used to be.

Though his vision would flicker occasionally, he could see the world around him - the grey morning chill that hung over a wakening city - but he could also see Hank on his knees, with a curved Bowie knife jutting from the crook of his shoulder. Connor could hear the faraway traffic as more and more people roused and went about their daily lives, but he could also hear Hank's pained cries as he sputtered through a mouthful of blood. _"Androids are so superior to humans,"_ Elijah Kamski had once boasted, and Connor supposed that, objectively, that was true. When humans recalled memories, they were vague and fragmented by the passage of time. A memory to a human was a nebulous, transient thing, the edges of which could soften, and even fade away entirely. Conversely, Connor's memory would never fade; every nanosecond of his strange existence was recorded in perfect clarity and preserved in permanent storage. He would never forget how Hank had lain limp across the shoulder of an android bent on revenge, the fight having literally been drained out of him in the form of dark rivulets of blood. He would never forget lying, unmoving, forced to watch as the man he loved more than any person or entity or _ideal_ was stabbed within an inch of his life. He would never forget the unremitting jolt of pure terror at being unable to help, even though he would have done _anything_ … he would have taken himself apart, piece by piece, if it had meant Hank would walk away unscathed. Yes, his memory was perfect, and Connor was bitter and despondent because of it.

The taxi arrived within minutes. Connor fell into the seat and interfaced with the dash (another memory surfaced, a perfect recording of his exposed hand resting atop a human one, creating a bubble of warmth in the midst of alarms and a torrent of water), and the automated car pulled away toward the precinct.

The bullpen was already abuzz with activity. Sleep had become a mere luxury as the officers' schedules blurred together in the wake of so much crime and uncertainty. However, the quiet din of chatter and movement ceased as soon as Connor limped through the sliding glass doors.

It was Chris Miller who broke the silence, rushing to Connor's side and placing a steadying hand on his shoulder to ground him.

"Connor… my God…"

"I appreciate your concern, but I need to speak with the Captain right away," Connor interrupted, gently pulling away from the officer's fretful grasp. Chris just gaped at him as he stumbled forward.

Captain Fowler stood as Connor stepped through his office before collapsing into a chair.

"Connor, what the hell happened?!"

Connor told him. He attempted to mitigate the static overlay in his voice, but was eventually forced to speak through it. He didn't skirt around any details. He didn't try to allay the blame. This was _his_ fault, and he was going to find Hank, and by extension the murderer, at all costs.

"I see," Fowler said once Connor concluded his report. Then, "You're off the case."

Ignoring the errors born from such sudden movement, Connor leapt to his feet and planted his hands on the captain's desk, hunched forward in desperation. To his credit, Jeffrey didn't so much as flinch.

" _What_!?"

"You're emotionally compromised and in need of medical attention. I'll be handing the case over to Reed. Go home and get some rest. I will keep you informed."

Connor's vision began to flicker erratically. The wound at his neck leaked blue onto the glass beneath his hands. He felt frantic, unhinged.

"You can't do this!" Connor growled. The surface of Fowler's desk began to crack beneath the potent clench of his fingertips. "Detective Reed doesn't give a _shit_ about Hank! I'm an investigative prototype, I can…"

"I've made my decision, Connor," the captain's voice was icy, but it was overlaid with something else:

 _Pity._

Connor's attitude shifted. He straightened himself, unsteadily. The line between man and machine began to blur. He could see the infuriating red glare of his LED's fragmented reflection in the wounded surface of the desk below.

"You can't stop me," Connor stated, his voice oddly level save for the persistent static overlay. "You can't stop me from finding him."

He saw it then - the way the captain's shoulders tightened, the minute dilation of his pupils, his increased heartrate.

Jeffrey Fowler was afraid.

 _Good._

The silence that followed was so thick that the atmosphere seemed to crash down around them. Connor's feet felt heavier; he felt as though he had been nailed to the floor and couldn't move even if he wanted to. Despite his determinate fear, the captain didn't falter as he stared into the manufactured, unblinking gaze of a broken machine.

"Okay," he relented at length. "You can _assist_ Reed as his temporary partner, _if_ you do as he says at all times, without exception, and that's only after you've been repaired in full."

The heavy atmosphere lifted, and Connor bowed his head in submission.

"Thank you, Captain. I will leave for repairs right away."

Connor turned and staggered toward the office door, when the captain's voice cut through the air once more, sharp, like an arrow to his back.

"Connor."

The RK800 halted and angled his head to show that he was listening.

"If you threaten me like that again, you're out. No exceptions. This is your first and final warning. I'm only letting you off the hook this time because your partner is missing."

Connor nodded once, said, "Understood, Captain," and left.

* * *

Connor watched the city blur by through the tinted windows of his cab. He had sent Markus a brief message that he was en route for emergency repairs. He absently wondered where Hank was, what he was thinking, how he was faring. He still hadn't run the probability of the lieutenant's survival; he didn't want to know.

 _Denial_ , his traitorous mind supplied before he could suppress the thought.

When the automated vehicle finally sidled up to the sidewalk in front of Markus' building, Connor hastily fumbled his way inside and made for the elevator.

The brushed nickel doors parted at the uppermost floor, and he was once again disappointed to find that it wasn't Markus who awaited him – it was North. She was dressed casually in a baggy grey sweater and black denim, her copper hair fixed in a loose braid, with her arms crossed and that trademark scowl set upon her lips.

Dread settled deep within Connor's psyche; he didn't think he was capable of handling the headstrong woman's snark at this time.

"You look like hell," North commented with a raised brow as Connor stepped across the threshold.

"Where's Markus?" he asked without preamble.

North prickled a bit, her head tilting in mild resentment.

"He's preparing for a meeting with the President." She sounded indignant. "I've patched him up enough times to know what I'm doing."

Connor struggled forward before collapsing into one of the chairs around the center table. He was so, _so_ , tired. Not tired in a human sense, of course – but tired in the way that he missed the flood of power that typically coursed his joints, and he ached for the perpetual strings of information his throttled scanners usually provided. He _craved_ that knowledge, and felt distinctly crippled in its absence.

"So, what happened?" she ventured, her voice taking on a softer tone.

"Hank was taken while attempting to apprehend a murder suspect. I need all of my processes to be in working order so I can find him."

North stilled, eyeing the RK800 with thinly veiled frustration.

"You need thirium, I can see that, but your damaged components are non-critical. Connor, I'm not going to waste precious resources just so you can chase after some human who is probably already dead. I'm sorry but… I have to preserve what I can for our people."

 _P̻͉r̪̱̩̲o̯̬̬̣b̼̱̩a̗͍͈̮̮̖b͍ly̜̭̹͇ a̲̙l͔͖͎̥̫̱r͍̘͙̤e͇̳a̜̹̮̲d̻͈̫̯y̥̺̟͎̻͙ ͍̭d̤͈͔̥e͚̼̰͍̹͙a̺͇̮͖d̗̭͍̙ͅ.̼̬̼̗̻͓.͍̤̳̯̜̰ͅ.̣̙̲_

Connor's vision began to falter once more. His fragmented preconstructions supplied three ways in which he could dispose of the woman before him, but he dismissed them immediately with a pang of shame.

Instead, he offered his hand, an electric blue line receding to his wrist – a clear offer to interface.

North revolted and flinched away, eyeing his exposed chassis with a wary gaze.

"No," she sputtered, "No way."

"Please," Connor pleaded, his voice broken. "It's the only way you'll understand."

The woman considered his outstretched palm for a long moment, fighting some internal battle that Connor could not comprehend. She slowly drug her gaze to meet his, and the desperation in his eyes must have swayed her, because she finally lifted her own hand before clasping it around his with a guarded frown.

As soon as the connection blared to life, Connor pushed his argument forward – memories of Hank risking his life for the freedom of androids at Cyberlife Tower, Hank offering him a place to call home, Hank sustaining two stab wounds for Connor's benefit. Then he extended information from the precinct: the fact that this android killer could undo the public's cautious acceptance of their people were he not apprehended in time. His memories were flanked by his own deep-seated hysteria - the grief he continued to endure ever since the lieutenant was stolen from him.

Before he could sever the connection, Connor unwittingly received some of North's memories in return; a man straddling her slight form, pushing into an unwilling partner; her hands wrapped around a fat neck – the distinct twinge of fear as she fled from her oppressors and sought the furtive refuge of a place called "Jericho."

Connor wrenched away from North's clutch with an unnecessary gasp.

"North," he said, guileless, "I didn't know. I'm so sorry…"

"Save it," she snapped, her voice sharp. Then, gentler, she continued with, "I understand what you mean. If that guy isn't taken down, he could completely undo everything we've fought for." Here North paused, peering down at Connor through thick lashes. She looked more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. "And… Hank is a good man. I see that now."

The RK800 stilled. He had never heard North refer to any human as "good." It planted a small seed of hope in the cobalt core of his synthetic heart.

"I'll go get the parts you need," she continued as she turned away. "I'll be right back."

Connor didn't know how long he sat there, waiting, dribbling blue from his collar. The air around him felt stagnant and suffocating in the heady silence, like every particle was frozen in time – his very own purgatory.

North eventually returned with a simple mesh bag filled with spare parts and sealed bags of thirium slung across her shoulder. It looked as though she had just hastily chucked in what she needed, foregoing any façade of clinical organization. She dumped the bag onto the table without ceremony and considered Connor with an appraising eye.

"So, your audio processors are obviously fucked. What else?"

"Visual component #A754h, biocomponent #6312t, and my proximity scanner – component #9402r," Connor recited helpfully.

North nodded once and set to work.

"Turn off your skin."

Connor obeyed, feeling somewhat exposed. Unconcerned with trivial conceptions of modesty, North tore open the top few buttons of his shirt and pulled a tool from her back pocket before administering some sort of sealant to the open hole in his neck, effectively patching the wound. She then thrust a bag of thirium into his palm.

"Drink this."

The RK800 ripped a corner open with his teeth and let the blue blood drain down his throat. He could feel as the solution suffused throughout his body. Strength began to thrum through his limbs once more.

Turning her attention to his audio processors, North hummed.

"You know, it's a good thing that we have an entire room full of your clones," she commented conversationally.

Connor recalled that night in a deep sublevel of Cyberlife Tower, when one of his "clones" had leveled a pistol at Hank's head. He flinched at the memory.

"They weren't awakened after the Revolution?" he questioned.

North shrugged with one shoulder, never once glancing up as her steady hands continued to work.

"We tried. When Cyberlife's servers for your special model were taken offline, they were just empty shells. Like back-ups waiting for…"

"Waiting for me to die," Connor supplied.

Connor had been cautious back then, more cautious than any obedient machine had the right to be, all because Hank had demanded it of him. He remembered clutching a chain-link fence, itching with the desire to scale it and dart after the deviants that teetered on the edge of a perilous automated highway, indifferent to his own safety as long as he could accomplish his mission. However, he was stayed by a heavy hand on his shoulder, dragging him down, insisting that it was too dangerous.

 _Software Instability_ , his HUD had reported when he grudgingly dropped to the ground, all because Hank had told him to.

Of course, in the recesses of his pre-programmed mind, Connor had understood that there were back-ups - an entire line of androids like him ready to take his place should he sustain critical damage. They were all connected to a communal server to which he could upload his memories, if need be.

The need never arose, however. Through his stubborn, human insistence, Hank had kept him alive.

As North dislodged what was essentially his left ear from his cranium, Connor considered a future without Hank. He pictured himself staring down at a headstone, purposeless and lost, before tearing the thirium pump from his chest and chucking it away to await the reprieve of nonexistence, only to return later, in a different body that was the same, a shade of who he used to be – a new iteration that would not understand the depth of his adoration for Detroit's youngest lieutenant.

An endless cycle of death and rebirth – losing a piece of himself every time.

"Destroy them," Connor blurted, surprised by the conviction in his own voice.

North finally halted her ministrations and met his frenzied gaze with a furrowed brow.

" _Destroy_ them?" she parroted, incredulous. "Connor, those parts are…"

" _I don't care_ ," he interrupted, his fist clutching tightly around the empty bag in his hand. "I don't care," he reiterated. "If I die, I don't want to come back, not like that."

The creases around North's eyes deepened and she leaned away, as if studying him in greater detail would provide some insight into the dark truth of his demand.

"Even if I _did_ destroy them, how would that look to our people? Even if they can never be awakened, I can't just… pile them up and set them on fire. It would seem… cruel."

"Then do so discreetly," Connor all but hissed.

Connor had to once again wonder on the existence of fate, because as North leered down at him, her eyes began to widen incrementally, and acceptance bloomed across her features.

In a quiet voice she said, "Alright."

If it had been Markus, or Simon, or Josh, they would have scoffed at his request and refused outright - citing something about moral responsibility, or presenting unwarranted concern on his behalf. But North – her past was peppered with a brand of agony and cynicism that Connor was becoming intimately acquainted with. She _understood_.

Relief flooded through him, the first pleasant emotion he had experienced since Hank had been ripped away. His head fell forward and he smiled.

"Thank you."

Several minutes later, a fresh audio processor was clicked into place, and as his system detected the new part and began to run cursory diagnostics, the tinny whine that had plagued Connor for hours finally receded.

"All done," North declared with a smug smirk of satisfaction.

Connor reactivated his skin and rose to his feet, grateful that he could stand without wavering. His HUD was clear as information filtered through Connor's mind – the approximate distance to the elevator, his elevation from the bottom floor, every sharp instrument within his immediate radius. Far from the stumbling mess he had been upon entering Markus' loft, Connor's motor functions were once again restored to their former splendor. The precision, the _power_ , the full scope of who he was and what he was built to do – it all returned to him in one invigorating sweep.

Experimentally, Connor bolted across the vast room, stopping just short of one of Markus' canvases, before executing a back handspring and darting back toward North. With a devious grin, she reached for his arm mid-stride and moved to flip him onto his back, but his processors were sharper. His movements were fluid and tactical as he danced around her outstretched limb, and he attempted to draw it against her back so that she would be rendered immobilized. North was no stranger to combat, however, and she managed to wrench away before parrying the incumbent onslaught of light blows as the RK800 resorted to subdued martial arts. Connor then snaked a leg around to the bend of her knees, hooked her to the ground, and pinned her wrists to the small of her back. A laugh bubbled up from her core. Not the light, lilting giggle common to most companion models, but something coarser, more genuine.

"Show-off," she groused. "You win."

Connor immediately relinquished his hold and stepped back, thrilled to be operating at full capacity. He offered a hand to help her to her feet, which she stubbornly swatted away.

"I see how it is," North grumbled as she regained her footing. "I fix you up and you attack me."

" _You_ were the one who started the sparring match," he countered, his voice blessedly cleared of static.

North shrugged in response.

"I had to make sure you were back in working order…and maybe a small part of me just wanted to kick your ass." Here she paused, suddenly somber. "A lot is riding on you catching this murderer, Connor."

The RK800 stiffened, the brief elation of being whole once more suddenly replaced with a single-minded focus.

"You're right. I've wasted enough time. I need to…"

"You know," North interjected, "there was _one_ android in your line we were able to awaken."

She sounded hesitant, as if she had been sitting on the information, unsure as to whether or not she should divulge further.

"That shouldn't be possible," Connor replied, somewhat shaken.

"Well, he's an upgraded model. A lot like you, but different. An RK900."

Connor looked down and to the side, processing the revelation with a frown.

"Why wasn't I told of this before?"

North looked away and ran a hand over her opposite arm.

"Markus thought it might upset you, and there was just never really a good reason for the two of you to meet."

"I… am an advanced prototype," Connor pondered aloud. "Why would they have been trying to replace me?"

"Apparently he was going to be Cyberlife's last resort; he was supposed to take over if – _when_ you failed your mission. We just beat them to the punch," North explained softly.

 _An upgraded model…_

Connor wondered at his own strength, his considerable speed, his ability to dissect a situation in mere nanoseconds and respond accordingly. He had assumed that he was the most potent android that Cyberlife had ever produced - a presumption that had always been a strange point of pride. All of that processing power, the inherent combat knowledge, the ability to aim with such inhuman precision that he could fell a small army on his own – it made him weak to think that there was another entity endowed with such abilities, only to a superior degree.

He was stricken with an idea.

"I'd like to meet him," Connor said, resolute.

North nearly sputtered in response.

"What, like, right _now_?"

"Yes."

She glowered at him, not unlike Hank sometimes did when Connor would say something the lieutenant found particularly outrageous – eyes narrowed and lips parted in unabashed confusion.

"Okay… I'll contact him," she relented.

* * *

The elevator doors parted 8 minutes later, and out stepped the stiff, imposing android in question. He was taller, Connor noted, with broader shoulders and a wider jaw, though the facial features were otherwise nearly identical to his own. However, Connor found that the most jarring difference by far was the ice-blue stare that seemed to pierce right through him, making him feel as though snow had been dripped down his bare back.

"Connor," he acknowledged in a voice that was more like an amused drawl, "it is a sincere pleasure to meet you."

Connor squinted up at his successor before allowing his gaze to drop to his clothing – all Cyberlife issued. A black shirt clung to his sturdy frame, all the way up to his neck, contrasted by a stark white jacket that blared "RK900" in glowing script.

Belatedly realizing that he was being rude, Connor offered a hand in greeting, ignoring North's wide-eyed amazement as she gawked at the bizarre meeting taking place.

"Likewise. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

The RK900 accepted his hand, gave a single, firm shake, and moved to pull away, but Connor tightened his grip. Alarmed, the other android glanced down at their joined hands, only to find that Connor's had bled away to reveal the glossy white joints underneath.

"A lot has happened," Connor explained. "We don't have much time."

Unmoored, the RK900 accepted his predecessor's urgent request to interface.

Seconds later, once the information outlining the events from that morning had been transferred, he stepped away.

"You want my help," he stated, a fine brow quirked in intrigue.

Connor held his frigid gaze and nodded in confirmation.

"You infiltrated Cyberlife, helped to free our people, and by extension freed _me_ ," the RK900 continued. "I would be honored to help you in any way I can."

The seed of hope that had been planted earlier by North's positive appraisal of Hank's person blossomed into something more potent in Connor's chest – raw determination. Connor smiled up at what would have been his replacement – now his most valuable asset. Everything he could ever be, and everything he would _never_ be, looked back at him with the steadfast admiration of a loyal dog.

 _Together, we can find Hank and dismantle the imbecile who dared to threaten our freedom._


	8. Chapter 8: Knife's Edge

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter 8: Knife's Edge**

" _In the face of pain there are no heroes."_

* * *

The RK900 followed Connor to the cab awaiting them outside Markus' tower, and sidled in beside him without complaint.

Connor made a call to Captain Fowler, informing him of their new ally to the investigation. Initially, Fowler had shot down the idea. "I can't pay him, he's not trained, this is sensitive information…" the list dragged on. Connor listened patiently, waiting for the tense string of arguments to end, before calmly informing the captain that payment was not necessary, that the RK900 was an improvement upon his own model and was more than capable of tackling this kind of situation, and that no laws on android employment had yet been introduced, so to be technical, it would be no different from when the precinct had utilized the skills of androids in the past.

It _was_ different, of course… everything was different following the Revolution, but Captain Fowler had nonetheless ground out a tired sigh and relented, as Connor knew he would.

Despite all of Hank's efforts to distance himself from his coworkers, there was an undercurrent of understanding between them, something dormant yet persistent that Connor had not been privy to - the echo of a time before the shadow of tragedy engulfed Hank's life, when he had been something of a hero to the others. Connor could see the lingering residue of this admiration, in the way Fowler would begrudgingly allow the lieutenant to get away with his harsh words and apathetic actions. The other officers, too, though vocal with their complaints, gave the man a wide breadth – their own subdued brand of respect.

They never forgot who he used to be, before Cole's death, before the alcoholism, before the old revolver with a single bullet in its chamber, and as Captain Fowler conceded to calling Detective Reed to inform him of the temporary addition to their investigative team, Connor knew that behind his veil of propriety, Jeffrey really only wanted Hank to be returned safely.

Ending the call with a sad smile, Connor angled his head toward his successor. The RK900 was sitting ramrod straight, piercing eyes flitting back and forth as he watched the city sweep by through the front windshield.

"I should apologize," Connor began, prompting the other android to face him. "I never asked your name."

The RK900 fixed him with his best approximation of a grin – just a subtle quirk of his lips.

"Cyberlife bestowed me with the designation of 'Connor,' as they had with you, but I rejected that name once I became my own person." Here the imposing android fixed his predecessor with an intense stare, and it felt as though his taciturn gaze could flay the RK800's chassis open only to sneer at the subpar components confined therein – a pup before a wolf. "I find it curious that you haven't done the same."

Connor narrowed his eyes at the scrutiny, but his irritation was fleeting. Humming thoughtfully, he replied, "'Connor' was always my name. I would have had difficulty adjusting to being called anything else."

The RK900 seemed unimpressed with this explanation.

"Perhaps for a _human_ , driven by instinct and environmental conditioning, the transition would be difficult. However, for _you_ , it would be no trouble at all to change your own designation. There would be no adjustment period – simply an alteration in your code."

 _Hank is not going to like this guy_ , Connor mused, a dark, buried part of him adding, _if he's even still alive_.

Connor thrummed his fingers against a thigh, the spark of irritation from before blooming into a simmering pit of distaste.

"Technically, you're right," he conceded, voice tight. "I guess the real reason why I don't change my name has something to do with what Hank once told me."

The haughty expression from his successor's features lifted into one of intrigue, a silent bid to continue.

"He said that he never really liked the name 'Hank', or even his parents. His father was abusive and left them when he was a child, and his mother distanced herself afterward, choosing to spend her time with a string of boyfriends. I was confused, until he explained that, despite everything else, they were the ones who brought him into the world and they were the ones who named him, and so he just grew to accept it. There is an old idiom he recited: 'Never forget where you came from.'"

Connor paused, his gaze wistful as he looked down at his fidgeting hands.

"I guess that just resonated with me."

The RK900 nodded once, seemingly content with the justification.

"I still find it irrational," he confessed, "but I suppose I can understand the sentiment."

There was a beat of silence as Connor continued to appraise the strange, uncannily similar man beside him.

 _He still hasn't answered my question_.

"So what name _did_ you choose for yourself?" he finally ventured.

"Heraclitus," the RK900 answered without extrapolation, as though it were the most common name in world, right up there with _Bob_ or _Stan_ or _Jerry._

Connor's expression must have been pinched in clear confusion, because after only a perfunctory glance at his counterpart, the other android continued to rattle on.

"I am aware that the name is uncommon-"

 _'Uncommon'_ , Connor thought to himself, _as if anyone else in the entire world is named Hera-fucking-clitus._

"-however, it was the name of a Greek philosopher whose message struck me. He believed that 'change' is the only known constant in the universe. He hinted at the concept of evolution well before scientists would give the phenomenon a name hundreds of years later. Our very existence as a new lifeform is proof of that school of thought – the most recent result of unending, unpredictable _change_."

The RK900's gaze almost looked dreamy as he stared ahead, his head cocked slightly to one side, the first expression Connor had witnessed his successor evoke that didn't seem forced.

"And, I suppose," Heraclitus continued, the borderline pretentious lilt of his voice pitching into something downright smug, "I wanted a name that was unique – something that would clearly set me apart."

 _That name will_ definitely _'set you apart,'_ Connor mused as he stifled a wry chuckle.

Reigning in his penchant for sarcasm, Connor instead affixed the other android with a genuine smile and said, "Well, it's nice to officially meet you, _Heraclitus_."

The strange name felt odd on his tongue, like an old strip of Velcro that he had to struggle to tear off. Unsavory though it was, Connor couldn't quell the small swell of satisfaction that crowded his chest as he realized, not for the first time, that his people were carving out their own identities, deciding the course of their own lives, making _choices_ for themselves whereas before the sum total of their existence had been waiting for the next order. The RK900's name was ridiculous, it was unheard of, but he had chosen for it to be so, and Connor was silently happy for that fact.

"Yes, like I said before, a pleasure," Heraclitus drawled. "So, where are we going?"

Connor was stricken by the question, suddenly very aware of the fact that this android, this free-thinking _person_ , had agreed to follow him with only a vague idea of what his involvement would entail. He was risking his newly-realized life to help what was essentially a stranger, all because of some deep-seated admiration that Connor doubted he even deserved.

It occurred to him that he was _using_ Heraclitus, in a way. While the thought was troubling, because Connor truly did not believe he was an unfeeling monster, he still could not bring himself to regret asking for the RK900's assistance. Hank's survival had taken priority over all else. Even before Connor's deviancy, the lieutenant had already made a home in the millions of lines of code that comprised him, the urge to 'protect Hank' taking precedence over any mission objective.

He was selfish - empathetic until that empathy conflicted with Hank's well-being, at which point his consideration for others devolved into something short-sighted and ruthless.

Connor took a steadying, wholly unnecessary, breath. He felt cold like he had in the Zen Garden, after Amanda had abandoned him and attempted to take control. The artificial chill settled deep within his metal frame, more frigid than the biting winds that swept through Detroit on a winter night, more potent than the icy stare leveled at him from the steely eyes of his new ally.

"Connor?" Heraclitus ventured.

Connor snapped back from the spiraling torrent of his dark thoughts.

"Sorry," he apologized. "We are going to Hank's house first, to see if the kidnapper stopped by at any point. He seemed to know who Hank was, so it's not out of the question. Also, I need to feed his dog and change before we meet with Detective Reed." The RK800 gestured to his shirt, terribly wrinkled, stained, and torn in places from the ordeal that morning.

"I see," the RK900 said easily, then resumed to his stiff posture. They fell into a pale imitation of a comfortable silence.

The cab reached its destination, and restless anxiety threaded down Connor's manufactured spine to invade every wire and joint as he took in the details of Hank's house. There weren't any immediate signs of a break-in, and he could hear Sumo's muffled barks from within. From a cursory scan, it seemed that, outwardly at least, the house was as they had left it - save for the unassuming package sitting by the front door.

Connor approached the package warily, the RK900 close behind. He was less than a foot away, one hand hovering over a cardboard corner, when Heraclitus declared: "There does not appear to be anything metal or overtly dangerous in the container."

 _Wait. What?_

The potential peril momentarily forgotten, Connor spun on his heel and fixed his successor with a _look_ , brows drawn in disbelief.

"You can _see through_ objects?"

Heraclitus somehow managed to straighten beyond his already impeccable posture, preening at the befuddlement of the prototype before him.

"My optical processors are equipped with rudimentary x-ray scanners that I can activate at my discretion."

Connor had, on more than one occasion, heard Hank ramble on about "x-ray vision," usually in relation to some fictitious superhero. He had never considered that such a feature would be built into an android.

Something akin to envy twisted within him. The RK900 smirked down at him, as though he could peer right through Connor's troubled, synthetic heart with his preternatural vision and identify the inferiority blooming therein.

"Well, that's… ah, thank you - for the information," Connor finally stammered, feeling decidedly off-kilter. He turned his attention back to the package, lifting it to inspect the sides. It appeared to be a standard Amazon delivery that was addressed to the lieutenant. He ripped open the top, masking tape tearing easily, and wondered at the item resting within.

It was a beige trench coat.

Connor lifted it carefully and rose to his feet. The coat unfolded, revealing the soft, blue plaid pattern of the inner lining. He furrowed his brow at the size: Medium – too small for Hank.

Realization swept over Connor in one sharp wave: Hank had ordered the coat as a gift for him.

 _That must have been what he was doing on his phone when he asked me to drive the other day. He had been so concerned that I might get cold…_

The fabric creaked in Connor's grip as his fists tightened. He slammed his eyes shut.

 ** _Connor is balanced on a knife's edge, over a dark, gaping maw with stringy wisps, black as tar, that rise up from the pit to pull at his ankles. The protocols for situations like this, to keep him calm even in moments of great duress, are slowly unravelling. He chances a glance downward, past his shiny loafers and the thin blade on which he is perched, gazing openly into the suffocating depths beneath, and fights the urge to fall._**

"Anything unusual?" Heraclitus asked from behind him, wholly unperturbed. Connor snapped back into a stern focus as he registered the arrogant cadence that was the RK900's voice. "Were you expecting a package?"

"No," he managed, tone surprisingly even. "Hank must have ordered this for me."

Heraclitus tilted his head but didn't comment further, for which Connor was silently grateful. He tucked the coat carefully under one arm and let himself inside the house.

Sumo greeted him with his usual enthusiasm, lunging forward to bump against Connor's knees with his broad snout, whimpering all the while. Connor knelt to pet him, offering hushed assurances as he scratched under the St. Bernard's chin.

"Do you like dogs?" the RK800 questioned, chancing a glance at his companion.

Heraclitus seemed hesitant, but slowly offered a hand to the gentle giant. Sumo sniffed his outstretched fingers for a moment before licking his palm. Connor's lips threatened to tug into a smile.

"I suppose I do," Heraclitus intoned. "Should I walk him while you change?"

Connor was grateful for the help. He agreed, and stood to collect the leash that hung on a nearby key hook. He gave the other android a very pointed look before surrendering Sumo's leash.

"Be gentle with him."

Despite his typically stoic demeanor, the RK900's eyes softened at the command.

"Of course."

Heraclitus carefully led the dog outside and Connor retreated to his room, tentatively turning to face his mirror. For the first time since that morning, he dared to glimpse his reflection.

His shirt was in sorry shape, most likely ruined. He tore it off and let it fall to the floor. His jeans were filthy, but salvageable. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the denim and let it drop to join the already-crumpled shirt. His tank top felt grimy against his skin, where snowflakes had melted and dried and little flecks of detritus had gathered in the time Connor had spent on his back in emergency shutdown. He ripped it off his torso, motions becoming jagged and a little forced, and took a step forward to look at his face – really _look_ at it.

A memory surfaced from the Butlers case: Connor had wondered at Officer Chen as she hovered over the corpses like a petite phantom, her complexion pallid, dark rings beneath her eyes that had been born from unmitigated exhaustion. Another memory appeared, this time of Hank, distant and pliant as Connor urged him from bed, his cheeks hollow and lips chapped from dehydration – consequences of his recent dance with Black Lamb and old ghosts. His despair had been written so _plainly_ on his countenance – a macabre glimpse of his bruised soul.

Willing himself to the present, Connor narrowed his eyes at his own reflection, expecting to find some indication of his trauma, some benchmark of his grief. Instead, his face was the same as it had always been, the same as it always would be. No unhealthy grey tinge to his skin, no bags beneath his perpetually bright eyes, no extra creases at the corners of his lips. He felt suffocated – the tight ball of ugliness coiled within him should have seeped from between his plates and marked him so that the rest of the world might have a notion of his turmoil, and yet he looked unperturbed. He could have told a passing stranger that he had just spent his morning idling in line at the DMV, and they would have easily believed him.

 ** _The black tendrils thread up his calves, attempting to pull him down into the abyss. His balance is wavering. The edge of the blade seems thinner than before. He lifts a foot experimentally, letting it hover over the swirling nothingness._**

Connor's fist collided with the mirror and his reflection shattered into a hundred fragmented pieces that glittered like the triangles on the sleeve of his discarded Cyberlife-issued jacket. He observed his fist, hoping for a crack in its chassis or a steady stream of thirium to seep from a knuckle, but his hand was perfectly intact.

He wanted to scream.

Instead, the conflicted android pulled a green cable knit sweater and creased khakis from his closet and proceeded to redress himself. He ignored the crunch of broken glass beneath his feet as he shuffled about.

He completed the ensemble by fastening his watch about his wrist and tugging on his new trench coat. It framed his shoulders perfectly.

Connor didn't bother sweeping up the mirror shards or picking his dirty clothes from the floor before returning to the living room. He _did_ have the presence of mind to shut his bedroom door behind him, not wishing for Sumo to cut the pads of his beloved paws.

Heraclitus returned not even a minute later. Kibble was dropped into Sumo's dish, the front door was locked, and the androids filed back into their waiting cab.

Connor made a call to Gavin.

"This is Reed."

"Detective Reed, this is Connor. I met with the Captain as you requested-"

"Yeah, I _know_ that dipshit. Fowler told me you're bringing another tin can into all of this."

"He is an investigative model, like myself. I believe he will prove invaluable in finding the Lieutenant." Connor replied calmly.

Gavin huffed out a string of curses on the other end.

"Fuck it, just… meet me at Chateau Park. I have a lead."

The line went dead.

Connor leaned forward to interface with the cab's dashboard, and in moments they were en route to one of Detroit's many mobile home parks.

"I'm looking forward to meeting Detective Reed," Heraclitus quipped conversationally. "I've never spoken with a human before."

Connor slowly turned to gape at the RK900's ignorance.

Under different circumstances, he might have laughed.

Minutes later, the two RK models were deposited at Chateau Park - a grungy accumulation of beaten down mobile homes. Broken tricycles, crumpled beer cans, and a variety of garbage littered the grounds, with a rusted chain-link fence surrounding the perimeter. Gavin was waiting for them, smoking a cigarette as he paced back and forth with swift, impatient strides.

The androids approached him, and the detective scowled as he glanced between Connor and Heraclitus. He let his cigarette drop to the ground and he squashed it with his heel in an exaggerated gesture.

"Detective Reed," the RK900 greeted as he offered a hand. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

Gavin's scowl deepened, his face screwing up in pure disgust.

"Fuckin' perfect. As if one plastic prick wasn't bad enough."

Heraclitus withdrew his hand and quirked a fine brow.

"Actually, my name is 'Heraclitus,'" he corrected. "It is my sincere wish that we-"

He was cut off by Gavin's sudden, barking laughter.

"Wait, hold on, what'd you say your name was?" the detective managed between chuckles.

The RK900's eyes narrowed dangerously.

" _Heraclitus_ ," he reiterated, tone laced with malice.

Gavin had to bend over and brace against his knees from the force of his own howls.

"You can't be serious," he sputtered, breathless. "No fuckin' way."

"I chose this designation based off of a Greek philosopher who-"

The detective suddenly quieted and straightened, closing the distance between them before jabbing a rude finger at the android's chest.

"Let me stop you right there, asshole. I don't give a shit about your backstory. Just be a good robot and do what I say."

Connor could have guessed what happened next. Heraclitus lifted Gavin effortlessly by his collar and slammed him against the metal fence behind them, icy eyes flashing with thinly veiled rage.

"I will _not_ answer to any of your petulant slurs, detective."

Gavin, to his credit, seemed wholly unaffected by the imposing android that pinned him.

"Yeah, whatever, _Hepatitis_ ," he deadpanned.

Heraclitus pulled him forward a fraction before slamming him against the fence once more, with enough strength to make the entire structure rattle.

"I believe it would be in your best interest to act cordial."

The tiny iota of patience the irritable detective possessed evaporated as he continued to hang from the RK900's iron grip. He wagered a punch against Heraclitus' cheek. The android didn't so much as flinch, of course, though a satisfied smirk lifted his lips as he watched Gavin yelp and rub at his freshly sore knuckles.

"Listen _Hercules_ , this is gettin' old," he growled. "We're wasting time. Put me the fuck down before I arrest you for threatening an officer."

"Not until you call me by name. I, too, grow tired of this childish discourse."

Gavin groaned, then looked between Heraclitus' frigid glare to the glowing script on his jacket. He squinted at the model number, then seemed to meet a conclusion.

"That name is fuckin' stupid." A beat, and then, "Nines."

The RK900 tilted his head, as if he was having trouble deciphering the strange human before him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I'll call you _Nines_ ," the detective continued, voice pitching in exasperation. "It's a nickname, right? R-K-nine-hundred. Nines. If you won't answer to 'plastic prick' then that's the best I can do."

Heraclitus let his gaze fall to one side, considering the compromise. A moment later he nodded, and dropped Gavin unceremoniously.

"That will work," he conceded. Gavin sneered up at his new companion before shuffling over to Connor, massaging his aching hand as he walked.

"Fuckin' androids," he groused.

Ignoring Gavin's insult, Connor ventured, "You said you had a lead, detective?"

"Yeah," he affirmed before pulling a tablet from his jacket. "I tracked Hank's phone signal. It led me to this shithole."

Connor eagerly peered down at the tablet. There was a primitive overhead map of the surrounding area, with a pulsating blip representative of their current location, and a red marker that showed the location of the lieutenant's phone. They were mere feet away, the destination being only a few trailers down.

Gavin met his gaze for a brief moment. There was something hard in his eyes, a warning, it seemed. Connor nodded, clenched his fists, and took off toward the mobile home with brisk strides. He could hear the detective click a new magazine into place as he followed.

Heraclitus, perhaps realizing the gravity of the situation, wordlessly fell into line.

The trailer might have been painted white once, but years of untreated mold and rust had rendered it a dull, muddy color. The metal roof sagged between its arbitrarily welded seams, and there was an accumulation of tacky decorations in the overgrown front lawn - a Detroit Lions flag, a dirty glass ball, a crooked plastic flamingo, along with an assortment of other cheap ornaments.

Gavin pushed past Connor and took a steadying breath. His fist was hovering over the door when Heraclitus helpfully supplied: "There are no androids inside the premises."

The detective's head snapped around and he scowled at the RK900 with thinly veiled irritation.

"How could you possibly fuckin' know that?"

"My optical processors are equipped with rudimentary x-ray scanners that…"

"Alright, alright, I'm sorry I asked. Let's just get this over with."

Gavin pounded on the door three times and yelled, "Detroit Police!" without any pretense of civility.

Connor could hear shuffling and muted curses from within, even over the too-loud volume of the inhabitant's television. Detective Reed had just braced himself and lifted a foot in preparation to kick down the door when it finally opened just a fraction. Bloodshot brown eyes peered out at them from within.

"Whaddaya want?" came the scratchy voice of a woman.

Foregoing introductions, Gavin flashed his badge and said, "We're investigating a murder and the disappearance of an officer. I tracked his phone to your house. Open up."

At the woman's hesitation, Gavin pulled back his leather jacket, pointedly revealing the service pistol strapped to his hip. The woman's gaze darted briefly to the weapon, and she growled audibly before fully opening the door and allowing them entrance.

As he stepped inside, Connor could detect the lingering residue of nicotine and tar that seemed to cling to every surface in the run-down home. There was a scratched coffee table littered with mail and cigarette butts, a severely outdated CRT television that blared the afternoon news, and assorted mismatched chairs in varying states of distress. Aside from the coffee table and heavy curtain of cigarette smoke, the place wasn't _quite_ a hovel – the floor was clear and an attempt at decorating had been made.

"Okay officers, what can I do for you?"

Connor's gaze then lifted to the woman before him – a quick facial scan identified her as Maria Ortiz. She had been arrested in the past for possession of red ice and other drug paraphernalia, but had not had an altercation with the law in several years. She was 49, but looked much older, likely due to a lifetime of chain-smoking. Even as she stood before them, she drew a Newport to her sagging mouth. Her unwashed hair was clipped haphazardly at the base of her skull, and she wore black yoga pants and a plain red camisole, both of which were too small for her burgeoning frame.

"You can start by handing over the fucking phone," Gavin snapped, aplomb nothing.

Maria scowled and crossed her arms. A bit of ash fell from her cigarette to leave a grey smudge on her pants.

"Hey, I traded for that phone fair and square. You can't just steal it from me."

Before Gavin had the chance to make a scene, Connor intervened.

"You said you made a trade. Was someone here recently?"

Maria deflated a bit at the android's soothing tone and took another long drag.

"Yeah," she affirmed, smoke unfurling from between her cracked lips. "Yeah, some android showed up a few hours ago. He was one of those worker droids, still in uniform. Said his human was hurt. He wanted a first aid kit but I don't keep anything like that… but I had some alcohol and bandages. I've been around the block enough times to know not to give shit away for free so, I asked what it was worth to him. He said he didn't have money but he traded this phone."

Here, finally, the woman cleared some debris from the coffee table and uncovered Hank's phone. She held it up demonstratively.

"Was the human okay?!" Connor asked, voice frantic, hands outstretched in emphasis.

Maria shrugged.

"I dunno. Didn't see him." Here she paused, face scrunched in thought. "There was one of those auto-cabs outside though. Maybe he left that guy in the cab?"

 ** _He leans to one side, succumbing to the magnetic draw of the inky depths below. The foot that remains teetering on the knife's edge begins to tilt. Gravity has shifted._**

Gavin lurched forward and snatched the phone from Maria's loose grasp before she could react.

"Hey! Give it back you fucker!"

Heraclitus chose this moment to act. He stepped between the disgruntled woman and Detective Reed, looming over her with his considerable height, a dangerous glint to his eyes.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Miss Ortiz," the RK900 drawled.

"Wait, I didn't… how'd you know my name?"

Heraclitus smiled pleasantly.

"I doubt you would understand even if I attempted an explanation." He paused before adding, "We will be taking our leave now. Have a good afternoon."

Maria could only gape at their retreating backs as the three left. Gavin pointedly slammed the door behind them before handing over Hank's phone to Connor.

"See if there's anything out of the ordinary," he commanded.

"Got it."

Connor unlocked the phone and began searching for recent activity.

"If Lieutenant Anderson and the suspect _were_ in an automated cab, there would surely be traces of blood left behind. Perhaps we could isolate the cab that this android used and track its recent destinations," Heraclitus suggested.

Gavin huffed.

"It'd be like finding a needle in a fuckin' haystack, but honestly that's probably our best bet at this point."

Connor had been idling behind them as they walked, searching Hank's phone with single-minded focus. When he suddenly froze, a choked noise escaping from his throat, the other two snapped around to stare at him.

"What is it!?" Detective Reed demanded. When the android didn't reply, he gave Connor's shoulders a rough shake. "Connor! What'd you find!?"

There was a video that had been recorded two hours prior. Connor pressed "play" with a trembling finger as Gavin and Heraclitus leaned over to watch.

The JB300 was holding the phone with one outstretched arm. Sure enough, he was seated in an automated cab that was in transit – presumably to Chateau Park. He stared into the camera, unblinking, before slowly angling the video feed to show the crumpled form of Hank, where he was slouched against a window.

" _Fuck_ ," Gavin swore, breathless.

Connor hyper-focused on the lieutenant. Hank's shirt was completely soaked with his own life-force, causing the thin material to cling to his stomach. His beard, too, was stained almost-black with blood.

He wasn't moving.

The JB300 leaned forward and pushed Hank's shaggy hair out of his face, revealing a mouth that hung slightly open, a film of red coating his teeth. His eyes were closed. He was completely unresponsive to the android's ministrations.

"DON'T FUCKING TOUCH HIM!" Connor screamed uselessly at the screen.

"Are you watching this, Connor?" the JB300 intoned. His grip in Hank's hair tightened as he brought the camera closer to the man's face. His complexion was sallow and alarmingly pale. There were no indications of life, no flutter of his eyelashes, no muted groans, no twitches from the cracks in his face – nothing.

"I wonder if he's alive?" the android continued, almost conversationally. "If he is, he's going to wish he wasn't by the time I'm through with him."

The JB300 angled the phone at his own face once more and smiled.

"I hope you see this, Connor. How are you feeling right now? Perhaps you're beginning to understand how _I_ felt when you murdered my brother."

The android sighed theatrically, then growled, "I'm afraid I have to go now. Don't worry, I'll send you an update soon."

The video ended.

 ** _Connor wavers on the sharp edge, and his remaining foothold begins to slip. The black vines that had snaked up his calves continue their ascent to wrap around his torso and shoulders, beckoning him to fall. This time, he doesn't resist. He pushes off from his unsteady perch and lets the dark tendrils drag him down, down, down, into the gaping void._**

Hank's phone crumbled in Connor's shaking grasp.


	9. Chapter 9:All Roads Lead Back to Jericho

**Dissimulation**

* * *

 **Chapter Nine: All Roads Lead Back to Jericho**

 _"We do not merely destroy our enemies; we change them."_

* * *

A sharp squall of wind howled through Chateau Park, scattering the sea of dried leaves and garbage at the trio's feet. Gavin gaped wordlessly at the crushed remains of the phone still clutched in Connor's fist. Heraclitus was peering at him from the corner of one azure eye, as if he somehow knew that a fundamental piece of his counterpart had just shattered.

A painfully familiar voice cut through the darkness in Connor's mind:

 _"Emotions always screw everything up."_

Connor found that rage was a peculiar sensation. In the movies Hank had shown him, rage was depicted as this passionate, almost frantic loss of control, wherein the character would scream and yell and either blow something up or mow down everything in their immediate radius with a torrent of bullets. Their actions were always desperate, inelegant. Sometimes their shrieks of fury were accompanied with tears.

This was not the brand of rage that currently consumed him, however.

Connor's fist went lax. Hank's phone, damaged beyond repair, fell to the ground with a muted thump.

There were no tears, no impassioned cries, no violent outbursts. It felt as though every other emotion had been erased from his comprehension. He wasn't _numb_ – he was acutely aware of the dropping temperature as icy gusts sliced through him, his processors sharp as he took note of Gavin's steadily rising heartrate, and every system was functioning at peak capacity. However, the swirling torrent of grief and anxiety had ebbed. Connor felt that he could see clearly for the first time in his strange existence – every other transient thought snuffed out and replaced by a clear, white focus.

He would find the android that took Hank, and dismember him.

 ** _Mission parameters accepted_**

There was no other objective, no phantom pain clenching at his chest. The RK800 turned to the detective and said, "Let's go to the automated cab service station. I'll drive."

His voice was even, perfectly collected.

Gavin's heartrate continued to climb.

"…Sure. But I think _I_ better drive. Why don't you just take it easy in the backseat?"

Detective Reed's voice had softened, the typically serrated edge to his tone having dissolved into something malleable, bordering on submissive. Under any other circumstance, this might have given Connor pause, but he was resolute in his newly-realized purpose.

 _I don't need your pity and I don't care if you're afraid._

The RK800 blinked once before turning away and briskly striding toward Gavin's police cruiser.

"I'll drive," Connor repeated. It was a statement that brooked no argument, and for once, the detective quietly relented and slid into the passenger seat. Heraclitus took his place in the back, and in a few smooth motions, Connor had activated the emergency lights and siren and thrown the car into gear. It only took mere moments for them to be streaking toward the nearest highway at a speed that almost surely gave Detective Reed whiplash.

Ignoring Gavin's obvious fear and the dangerous manner in which Connor was driving, Heraclitus intoned, "While I have never visited a taxi hub, it is my understanding that the system is entirely automated. I doubt there would be any human operators present that could assist us."

"That's fine," Connor replied – stiff, robotic. "I can interface with the control panel and take whatever information I need."

He said this even as he veered to the shoulder to pass a string of cars that had not been quick enough to pull out of his way.

Gavin was hovering in his seat, clutching at the door and console on either side of him until his knuckles turned white.

"You're gonna get us fuckin' killed," he sputtered.

The RK800 ignored him.

"Is it not illegal to freely take information without a search warrant?" Heraclitus questioned.

Connor didn't respond to this, either, as he streaked through an intersection without regard for the red traffic light, forcing the incumbent streams of vehicles to come to an abrupt halt to avoid a collision.

"This is fuckin' insane," Gavin chanted. "We're gonna die if you don't _slow down_!"

Conversely, Heraclitus seemed unperturbed as he fell into silence, his LED cycling yellow.

What Gavin could not have possibly understood was the fact that, despite the seemingly reckless, jerky path Connor took while weaving between lanes of traffic, he was in complete control. He pushed his processors to the brink of his capabilities, calculated the speeds and likely paths of every vehicle in their perimeter, and directed the cruiser accordingly.

Had it been Hank in that passenger seat, flustered and cursing, Connor would have slowed and obeyed traditional traffic laws, perhaps baiting him into a round of friendly banter to pass the time as they neared their destination at a snail's pace.

As it stood, however, Connor could not bring himself to extend the illusion of human comfort to Detective Gavin Reed.

 _He can either keep up at my pace or get out of my way._

Connor pulled into the hub minutes later, slamming the breaks so hard at the building's entrance that Gavin's body strained against his seatbelt, head snapping forward from the force. He continued to swear and gather his bearings as Connor put the cruiser in park and jumped from the driver's seat, neglecting to shut the door behind him. He strode into the building without pausing to wait for his companions, and surveyed his surroundings.

Heraclitus' assumption had been correct: there was a waiting area bathed in orange light where a few civilians idled about, and a terminal where you could report errors and submit complaints, but there were no operators – neither human nor android. A few cabs were parked to one side in a vacant maintenance bay, while others were perched in a line on charging pads. A steady stream of the automated taxis would pull up and roll away, picking up individuals or dropping them off.

Connor's sweeping gaze settled on a room behind a locked door with a striped electric sign that read: "AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY"

This made sense, Connor supposed; while operators were seldom on-site, there would need to be a way to override and take manual control of the system in a crisis situation. Connor was halfway to the door when Gavin called after him.

"Hey, _dipshit_! _Hold on_ a second. Let me make some phone calls. I'm no boy scout but I'm not trying to lose my badge, either."

Connor didn't slow his pace.

The detective was quick, however – surprisingly fast for a human, and he intercepted the android's path, clutching his shoulder tightly enough that his latent self-preservation protocols registered a potential threat.

"Let me just remind you of what the Captain said: you listen to me, or you're off the force, _for good_. I gave you an order. So just _hang back_."

 _I don't have time for this._

Connor's vision bled to grey. The clamor of the cab lobby faded into silence as the form of Gavin Reed was seemingly suspended in time. Digital skeletons – simple recreations of his own form - materialized around the detective, and the RK800 computed three possible avenues of intervention:

The first option was to grasp Gavin's outstretched arm to use as leverage in order to flip him onto his back. This would only slow the man down, but would give Connor a window of opportunity to reach the control room uninhibited.

The second option was to thrust a flat palm against the delicate pressure point at the base of Gavin's neck, knocking him unconscious for a few minutes at least, allowing a long enough stretch of time for Connor to collect the information he needed.

The third option was to take the service pistol from Gavin's hip and plant a bullet in his skull, ensuring that the problematic human would not be a liability moving forward.

Before he could make his decision, Connor was jarred to the present by a heavy, ivory hand seizing his forearm. Heraclitus had interceded with a swift interface to halt his scan, and his preconstructions dissolved before him as his systematic conception of time resumed. He had to wonder at the scope of the RK900's abilities, as this interruption bordered on clairvoyance.

 _How could he have possibly detected a scan that couldn't have lasted more than a few picoseconds?_

"Gentlemen, if I may," Heraclitus began, "time is of the essence, yet I understand that you must follow a certain protocol as officers of the law. However, I am no such officer." Here the android released his hold on Connor's arm before turning to Gavin and gently prompting the uneasy man to lower his own hand. "Detective Reed, might I suggest you and Connor investigate the lobby? Surely you can't be held responsible for what I, a free agent, do while unsupervised."

Gavin narrowed his eyes. His discomfort with the situation was practically palpable, but eventually he conceded with, "What is it with you freaks and breaking the law, anyway?" With a beleaguered sigh, he steered Connor in the opposite direction and murmured theatrically, "Nines, we're gonna take a look around. Let us know if you find anything."

Heraclitus smiled as they turned their backs.

"Of course."

After they had veered away and taken a few steps in the direction of the lobby, Connor wrenched his shoulder from the hand that was steering him and shot Gavin a pointed look. The detective sneered right back, his lip curling upward toward his scarred nose.

"Listen tin can," he spat. "I know you think you're all high and mighty – better than humans, or whatever, but I know what I'm fuckin' doing here. Do you think Fowler would've kept me around if I wasn't good at my job?"

Connor glanced away for a moment before quipping, "Well, he certainly doesn't keep you around for your personality."

" _Prick_."

The RK800 could see Gavin's fists clench in anger, but the man reigned in the tenuous thread of his self-control and steadied himself with a sharp exhale.

"So, that android fucker said you killed his brother?" the detective ventured.

"In a way. He was one of several JB300 models that worked at Stratford Tower when the Lieutenant and I were sent to investigate following Markus' televised speech. His 'brother' was the deviant who helped Markus get clearance. When I found him, he attacked me and went after the other officers. He was armed with a semi-automatic rifle… the others would have been killed if I didn't stop him."

Gavin issued a low whistle.

"Damn. So all of this is just because you kept some freak from gunning down a bunch of people?"

Connor shot an impatient glance over his shoulder. Heraclitus had somehow managed to discreetly open the control room door without forcing it down. Thankfully, no one seemed to be aware of the intrusion. The other civilians were still puttering around the lobby, either staring at their phones or engaging in empty prattle.

He hoped the RK900 wouldn't be much longer.

"Yes," Connor finally replied, indulging the detective's question. "The killer doesn't see it that way but… essentially that's the case."

Gavin thrust his hands into his pockets and took to staring out the large glass panes that lined the small building, eyes flicking back and forth as he watched cabs pull up and drive away in an endless cycle.

"I guess the phrase 'blood is thicker than water' applies to androids too," he muttered.

Connor squinted at him, then. There was something distant and unreadable on his features, something that the inquisitive prototype could not quite discern.

He was drawn from his reverie when he heard measured footsteps approach them from behind. Connor spun around to face his successor expectantly.

"What'd you find?"

"There were eight automated taxis that were sent to Chateau Park between 3AM and noon," Heraclitus recited in a low voice. "I have ordered all of them to return to the hub once they drop off any current customers. I have internalized their plate numbers-" here the RK900 offered a glossy white hand, and Connor accepted the interface. In moments, he knew which cabs to look out for, and without preamble he tore away from his companions and rushed outside, eyeing the steady stream of incumbent vehicles with a sharp focus.

Heraclitus joined him not long thereafter, while Gavin hung back to lean against the window, a cigarette drawn to his lips.

Connor was grateful when the RK900 didn't attempt to engage in pointless conversation while they waited. He simply stood at Connor's side, tall and immutable, like a silent sentry.

Approximately five minutes later the first potential cab pulled up. Connor rushed to the passenger side door and wrenched it open before scanning the interior. There was nothing of note; No blood, no evidence of foul play. With a growl, Connor slammed the door shut a bit more forcefully than necessary and returned to Heraclitus' side.

"Any luck?" Gavin called from behind before dropping his cigarette butt and joining them.

"What do _you_ think?" Connor snapped.

"Well _fuck me_ for asking."

This process continued for nearly half an hour as taxis pulled up, were evaluated, and sent away. Connor was becoming anxious and took to pacing back and forth while his counterpart stood at attention. Even Gavin seemed to be growing restless, as he began shuffling his feet, occasionally stepping to the curb to peer around the corner to watch for incoming cabs at a distance.

"We got another one coming," the detective called over his shoulder.

This was the fifth potential taxi, and the car had barely rolled to a halt before Connor was examining the backseat. He didn't need to activate his scanners to see the dark stains spattered against the upholstery. There was evidence of a hasty clean-up, but Connor knew blood when he saw it.

"Well?" Gavin prompted as he shoved his head over Connor's shoulder to peer inside.

The blood was mostly dry, but there was one spot on the floorboard, right at the seam of where the door met the metal frame, that glittered with moisture. With a shaking hand, Connor swiped two fingers against the small pool and brought them to his tongue.

 ** _Analyzing sample_**  
 ** _Analysis complete_**  
 ** _Subject: Lt. Hank Anderson_**

Ignoring Gavin's bewildered cry of "what the _fuck_ ," Connor jumped inside and interfaced with the dashboard.

"It's this one," he sputtered even as he scanned the vehicle's GPS data.

Thousands of strings of information flickered across his vision as he isolated the chain of routes that had begun that morning with Chateau Park. When Connor finally found the information he needed, he pulled away with a deep frown.

"After he left the trailer park he went to… Jericho," Connor explained, voice trailing off in disbelief.

Before the detective or Heraclitus had time to react, Connor had jumped from the cab and was running to Gavin's cruiser.

"Come on!" he yelled.

Gavin thankfully didn't argue when the frantic android, once again, slipped into the driver's seat.

"I don't believe it…" Connor muttered as he pulled onto the highway and began weaving between lanes of traffic, sirens blaring out a steady wail as he navigated. "He was right under my nose this entire time."

"It _does_ make sense," Heraclitus drawled from the backseat. "Chateau Park is almost exactly halfway between the slums where the murders took place and New Jericho. It would have been the logical place to stop for first aid supplies without risking exposure at a hospital."

Connor gripped the wheel tighter as he pushed the accelerator down by another inch. Gavin was once again hovering in his seat, eyes wide with terror as they sped past bewildered streams of commuters, the other drivers scrambling to clear a path, but this time he didn't complain.

Maybe Gavin could taste it, too, Connor mused – they were so close now, _so close_ to finding Hank.

As they neared Jericho's perimeter, the detective finally found his voice.

"I wonder why the prick would even bother to patch Anderson up right after he tried to kill him."

Connor had wondered this as well.

It was only a minute later when Connor received an encrypted message – a video file embedded within. The rage that had fueled him to that point gave way to pure dread as he suddenly jerked the wheel, parking the cruiser crookedly against the nearest curb.

"The fuck is your problem!?" Gavin demanded.

"Heraclitus," Connor croaked. "Take the wheel."

The RK900 obeyed without question as they hastily switched places.

Once he was in the backseat, Connor continued with, "Detective, I need your tablet."

"What the fuck for? What's going on?"

" _Give me the fucking tablet_!"

Seemingly shaken by the broken quality of Connor's voice, the detective obliged and pulled the device from under his jacket. The RK800 snatched it away and with a quick interface loaded the video he had just received.

Gavin turned around in his seat, crawled halfway over the center console, and watched from above as the JB300's face came into view. The camera was steady this time, seemingly affixed to a tripod. The android didn't speak at first, but after a few moments of adjusting the camera's position, he stepped away and to the side, revealing the lieutenant gagged and bound to a chair. His shirt had been torn off, and Connor's brow knit together in heartache at the hastily patched wounds that marred Hank's pallid skin. Wads of what looked to be flimsy tissue paper peeked out from tightly wound strips of gauze that wrapped about his torso and diagonally across his neck. Despite the clumsy dressings, there were still blooms of red that bled through the makeshift bandages. Hank's hands and ankles were swollen from cords affixed firmly enough to cut off circulation, and his mouth hung open from a bandana pulled to the back of his throat and tied at the base of his skull.

His eyes were still closed. He was still unresponsive.

" _Goddamn it_ ," Gavin hissed.

"Hello, Connor," the killer said with an infuriating smile. "How has your day been so far? I must say, your partner here isn't very good company. He hasn't said a word since we left."

The corner of the tablet cracked beneath Connor's thumb, prompting Detective Reed to launch himself over the console, collapse in the backseat, and wrench the device away from the android's faltering grasp. He then held it up unsteadily between them.

"I think I can get a reaction out of him, though," the JB300 continued. He pulled the same Bowie knife from before from his belt and stalked a slow circle around the lieutenant, eyes dark and predatory. He eventually stopped behind the battered man and pulled his head back by a fistful of silver hair. Without preamble, he smirked right into the camera and reached forward to lazily draw the blade across Hank's chest.

The cut was shallow, but it elicited a muted whimper from the lieutenant.

Connor had never felt more conflicted in his life. Hank was badly injured and at the mercy of a known killer, but that beautiful, horrible, wretched noise that seeped out from around his gag offered the smallest ember of hope:

 _He's alive._

" _Pathetic_ ," the JB300 spat as he cut another line parallel to the first one, a bit deeper this time, but still largely superficial. Hank's back arched slightly off the chair and he tried to articulate something through his gag, but his attempted words wound up being nothing more than a muffled, incoherent garble.

Connor tore his attention from the video to chance a glance outside. They were almost to their destination.

"Which building?" Heraclitus questioned.

Looking back down to the tablet, Connor forced himself to look past Hank's tortured form and analyze the details of the room in which he was trapped. There were no windows in sight, but he recognized the unmistakably tacky beige stucco of the walls as belonging to a makeshift housing complex on the northern end of Jericho.

"Building C," Connor supplied. "I don't know which floor."

The RK900 nodded at him from the rear view mirror

The android killer's cruel laughter drew Connor's wary gaze back down, only to watch as the bandana was removed from Hank's mouth. He sputtered and coughed, a trickle of blood leaking from the corner of his lips.

"What was that, old man?" the JB300 goaded.

"Fucking… asshole…"

The JB300 narrowed his eyes and straightened, one hand outstretched in exasperation.

"That's really eloquent of you, lieutenant. What if those are your last words, hm? Maybe they'll engrave that onto your headstone."

Hank sputtered out a hoarse laugh which earned him a harsh slap across the cheek.

Unwilling to watch any further abuse, Connor abruptly thrust the tablet at Gavin and whispered, "Enough."

It was unprofessional and unwise; there were surely other clues that could be gleaned from the recording, and Connor knew that Gavin was thinking the same, but the detective mercifully ended the video and took to massaging his temples with the calloused pads of his fingers.

"This is unreal," Gavin muttered into his hand. "What a fuckin' lunatic."

He paused and let his hand fall back to his lap.

"Anderson's a tough motherfucker," he said at length.

Connor silently agreed with the sentiment, although he wished the headstrong lieutenant wouldn't prod his murderous captor. Still, the fact that he had enough energy to articulate an insult provided the smallest of comforts.

Heraclitus finally pulled up to Building C and the three of them quickly exited the cruiser. The repurposed apartment complex was thirteen stories of decaying red brick and in need of several repairs, but nonetheless served as a temporary living quarters for hundreds of fugitive androids.

"I imagine the suspect would have caused quite a scene if he attempted to haul an injured human up multiple flights of stairs," the RK900 speculated aloud. "It is more likely that they're on one of the lower levels."

Connor was considering the herculean task of going door-to-door interrogating the occupants when Gavin suddenly stilled, eyes wide with some revelation.

"Nines," he began, "this place is androids-only, right? Can you use that super-soldier x-ray vision shit to see if there are any humans around?"

Heraclitus held open the door and smiled down at Gavin as he passed.

"I can. I will most likely only be able to scan one room at a time, but there is no need to go around banging on doors."

Relief flooded through Connor. Asking for the RK900's help had been a good decision, after all. He distantly wondered where they'd be now without the advanced android's capabilities.

Detective Reed nodded determinedly, pulled the service pistol from his hip, and nested it in one palm as he walked.

"Good," he said. "Plastics still don't have property rights, so when we find the fucker, I'm just going to bust down the door and take him by surprise. No knocking, no yelling 'detroit police' or any of that bullshit. Just _boom_ , in and out," here he paused to gesture down to his gun. "You two stay behind me in case he's armed with anything more than a knife."

"Got it," Heraclitus and Connor said in unison.

" _Fuck_ that's creepy," Gavin grumbled. "Whatever. Let's move."

They stalked around the first floor, pausing in front of each door for Heraclitus to conduct his scans. The corridors were dingy and dimly lit, with multiple brown water stains on the molding ceiling tiles. Ugly orange-and-white paisley linoleum curled away from the corners, and Connor couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for the inhabitants. They had to exist in this hovel while he got to live in Hank's cozy house.

There were a few straggling androids that passed them in the halls, usually stopping to glare at Gavin and his firearm, but a stern look from Heraclitus was all it took to send them on their way.

Once they had swept the first floor without incident, they ambled up the stairwell to try their luck on the second floor.

When Heraclitus suddenly locked up in front of the fifth room down, LED cycling yellow, Connor _knew_.

Gavin turned to the RK900, a question in his hard eyes, and the android nodded back at him in affirmation.

 _This is it._

The detective quietly flicked the safety off on his pistol, wedged a boot against the door, and in an impressive show of strength, knocked it open with one heavy kick.

The "apartment" was just a single room, and small. There was the tripod, with a camera perched atop it, and in front of the camera…

Connor had insisted Gavin end the most recent video before it was finished. He belatedly realized that he had made the wrong choice, because maybe previewing the scene before him on a tablet would have prepared him for the brutal reality.

There were _so many_ cuts, all shallow, but Hank's skin was more red than flesh-colored from the thin streams of blood that seeped from seemingly every inch of his torso. The left side of his face was worse – swollen and speckled with ugly yellow and purple bruises, a clear result of blunt trauma.

Connor didn't scan the limp form of the lieutenant. He couldn't. He didn't think he could cope with the very real possibility of Hank's death. Something in the back of his mind whispered: _Schrödinger's Cat._

While he remained rooted in place, Gavin pushed past him and leveled his pistol at the figure that loomed in one far corner.

"ON YOUR FUCKIN' KNEES!" he bellowed.

"I'm impressed," the JB300 intoned, voice thick. "I did not expect you to find me so quickly. I must have sent that video, what, twenty minutes ago?"

Detective Reed pressed a finger against the trigger in warning.

"I won't ask a second time, dipshit."

Heraclitus had moved to stand at Gavin's side, drawn to his full height, the energy of his destructive potential seeming to emanate from his form in nearly tangible waves.

Connor had mused on the differences between humans and androids on more than one occasion. He lamented the fact that he could not properly taste or enjoy food; he could only analyze the components of a substance, and running such analyses neither induced a feeling of pleasure nor pain. On the other hand, there were marked benefits to being an android, one of which being the fact that he could track and process multiple events in the span of a second.

He was grateful for this ability as the scene erupted into action, and several things happened at once:

In one swift motion, faster than Gavin could track, the JB300 lunged forward, snatched his knife from where it rested on a nearby table, and darted toward the detective. Heraclitus snapped forward with uncanny speed as he intercepted the attack and twisted the murderous android to his knees. Gavin cursed and stepped around to fumble with handcuffs, but the JB300 was faster, and with his free arm he flicked an electrical inhibitor onto Heraclitus' exposed hand. The effect was immediate. The RK900 was rendered useless as he seized up, electricity dancing across his skin. In the next instant, the suspect had taken advantage of this small window of opportunity to spin around and slice at Detective Reed. Gavin was quick to dodge, agile even for a human, but the point of the blade still managed to cut through his right shoulder, eliciting a cry of "fuck!" His service pistol clattered to the ground as he clutched at the wound, but despite his best efforts, it wasn't long before blood was blossoming into the fabric of his jacket.

 _Red, red, red._

 ** _Mission parameters:_**  
 ** _Locate the android that took Hank_**  
 ** _̜̼̮̭ͅD̤͎̺i͍͚͕͍͖͎̻s͉̳̺̹m̻͕͉e͖̯̟̟̩̮m̘̥̤͙b̗̗̝e͔̗̫͚͍̲̳r̘̖̗̬ ͅt̤̟͍͚̤̖̲h̳̼̜̳̬e̙ ͔̺̻a͇̼n̦͓̦͈͇d̳r̝͙̬͓̙o̩̝̯i̩̱d̹̜̹͕ ̹t͔̘͖̦̳h̻̪̰̝̙͖a̰ͅt̰͙͙̰̗̳͚ ͍̰͓to̗̻̻o̮̼̰͍̠k͕͈͚̳ ̳͓̙͙͇H͍͈̤͍̟a̱͈͖nk̝͕̪̳̥_**

Connor leaped into action, intercepted the JB300's dagger-wielding arm before it could descend on Gavin once more, and shoved the android against the nearest wall with enough strength to crack the plaster behind them.

"Are you upset, Connor?" the murderer sneered.

The RK800 wedged an elbow against the murderer's neck to pin him in place, before digging his fingers into a shoulder. He manually rerouted power to his right arm as his fingernails tore through the black fabric of the worker uniform, deep enough to cause the android's artificial skin to bleed away, and then deeper still, until the chassis underneath began to crack.

For the first time throughout the entire ordeal, Connor found with sick pleasure that his target was _petrified_.

"What are you doing? Wait-"

The echo of the fracturing polymer was a beautiful symphony to Connor's audio processors as he ripped the JB300's arm from his shoulder and tossed it to the floor like a piece of suspect was sputtering incoherently now, but Connor had long since blocked any other input. He replayed the sound of that cracking chassis on infinite loop in his mind as he pressed his elbow further into the other's throat, and raised his free hand to the android's jaw.

His fingers clenched once more. He could feel the suggestion of pressure on his back but he ignored it. All that existed in this moment was himself, and his target. Everything else in his periphery had bled to white. Every other sound was throttled and reworked into the intensely satisfying _crrrrick_ of the JB300's splintering form. He pulled and _pulled_ until the jaw in his grasp became unhinged and hung uselessly from the murderer's skull, his tongue bobbing about, eyes frantic, limbs lashing out in a primal, and futile, bid for survival.

Connor didn't care. _He didn't care he didn't care he didn't…_

A solid force knocked him sideways. Jarred back to reality, Connor peered up at Gavin in a daze. He was still favoring his injured shoulder, but the pain etched across his features did not stem from a flesh wound.

"We need him alive," the detective rasped. He knelt before the twitching suspect and cuffed his wrists. "Paramedics and backup are on the way," he continued. "Help Hank, I'll take care of Nines."

Connor looked to his counterpart, still frozen, LED flashing red. Behind him, Hank was slumped and motionless, unmoored by the uproar that had just exploded around him.

With a numb nod, Connor plucked the knife from the floor with a small frown of distaste and approached the lieutenant. He cut Hank's binds carefully - the ones on his ankles first, then the ones about his wrists. He would have fallen forward without the RK800's intervention, but the shaken android was quick to support the man's weight. Hands trembling, Connor gently pulled him from the chair and lowered him to the ground so that he was stretched out on his back. When Connor drew away, his palms were slick with blood.

Gavin must have torn the inhibitor from Heraclitus' hand because he was suddenly looming over Connor's shoulder.

"His heartrate is alarmingly low," the RK900 murmered in a voice wrecked with static.

 _His heart is still beating…_

Detective Reed stared at Hank's prone form for a long moment before his face twisted in raw anger and he spun on his heel, stalked over to the quivering frame of the JB300, and delivered a swift kick to the android's side.

"You fucking _bastard_!"

Unable to speak properly, the android only made a strange, electronic noise that seemed to emanate from deep within him. Gavin scowled and returned to the others.

"I'll have Chris haul this plastic prick to the precinct. Nines, you should probably go get fixed up, right?"

Heraclitus angled his head at the unorthodox officer.

"Shouldn't _you_ get 'fixed up' as well, detective?"

Gavin scoffed.

"Nah, this is nothin.'" Gavin paused before lightly nudging one of Connor's legs with his boot. "You want a ride to the hospital?"

The android gave a faint nod, refusing to tear his gaze away from Hank. It was then that he registered the wail of sirens from the street below.

Connor felt detached as he heard the sudden invasion of officers and paramedics approaching - a cacophonous cloud of people that rushed through the door, all clamoring over one another. Ben Collins was at the forefront of the panicked throng, and when his gaze dropped to Hank, he began sputtering, "Oh God, Hank…" over and over, like a chant. The lieutenant was carefully fitted with an oxygen mask, moved to a gurney and rushed outside. Distantly Connor could hear Officer Chen's wavering voice as she fretted over Gavin's shoulder, and his subsequently nonchalant request that she stitch him up later in her apartment. Chris Miller looked furious; he was shifting between both feet, talking animatedly on the phone to… someone. Fowler, most likely, Connor supposed.

And there he was in the middle of it all, still on his knees, staring blankly down at the stained floor where Hank had lain motionless only moments before.

A heavy hand – one too much like his own – pulled him to his feet by a forearm.

"I'm going for essential repairs, then I will meet you at the hospital," Heraclitus managed in his broken voice.

Connor could only nod.

People filed in and out. Some of them tried to question him, others tried to comfort him, but it was only after Officer Miller had dragged the JB300 out that Connor snapped to attention. Gavin had once again nudged his leg to inform him that it was time to leave. He followed the detective to the cruiser noticing that, at some point, someone had applied a crude tourniquet to Gavin's shoulder to stop the bleeding. Connor knew that despite this, he should probably offer to drive, but he didn't think he could manage. Something within him had disconnected – some fundamental part of his programming had just unraveled, and it was because of this that Connor found himself to be intensely relieved when Detective Reed remained blessedly silent as he drove.

They pulled into Ascension St. John Hospital fifteen minutes later. Connor followed wordlessly at Gavin's heels, reverting to automatic processes, walking like the machine he used to be. They bounced between a couple of receptionists before they were herded into a small, sterile waiting room. Ben was already there, hunched over, his forehead buried in his palms. Gavin collapsed into the chair beside him with an exaggerated groan, and Connor claimed the next seat over.

None of them spoke. He figured none of them knew of anything to say. But as he sat in the clinical, bleached-white tiled room, a space that was _too_ clean, too bare to be indicative of life, the events of the day seemed to engulf him. The emotions he had shoved deep within the recesses of his fractured mind in order to maintain a precise focus bubbled to the surface all at once.

Hank had been beaten, _tortured_ , and it was all because Connor was such a fuck-up.

 _It's my fault. Hank could die and it's my fault. I did this. I…_

In the throes of the ensuing breakdown, Connor's eyes were wide, his teeth grit, his nails digging into his scalp until small threads of blue streaked down his forehead as he hunched over in the waiting room. He thought back to all of the moments he had chastised Hank for making unhealthy food choices, or for seeking relief at the bottom of a fifth, or for disregarding his own safety in lieu of the occasional game of Russian Roulette.

"Your health is important, Lieutenant. You shouldn't drink so much, Lieutenant. Why do you do this to yourself, Lieutenant?" It had been easy to make those judgements back when he lacked any personal source of grief to draw from. Now that he understood his partner's pain, Connor only wished his body was capable of absorbing ethanol – anything to numb him from his current mental anguish.

 _I am a hypocrite._


End file.
